


Game / Set / Match

by NineMagicks



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Sports, Baz "one slam wonder" Pitch, Light Angst, M/M, Professional tennis AU, Rivals to Lovers, Simon "I hate tennis" Snow, Tennis, The Watford Open aka Budget Wimbledon, and other assorted jokes about balls, every British swear word you can think of, justice for Tim Henman, new balls please!, questionable tennis terminology, racket smashing, resentful kissing, the age-old GOAT debate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:21:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29488209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks
Summary: It's the beginning of the end for former up-and-coming tennis sensation, Simon Snow. He used to care about his career, and thought he might actually make something of himself - but as always, he was left eternally chasing Baz Pitch's shadow. Months since Simon last made an effort, and years after either of them won anything of note, these two once-bright stars are on a collision course to meet at the tennis calendar's most prestigious event, the Watford Open. Will Simon smash a record number of rackets over the next fortnight? Will Baz step away from social media long enough to overcome his crippling self-doubt? Well, tennis fans - whip up a bowl of strawberries and cream and settle into your seats, because we're in for a marathon match. NEW BALLS PLEASE!
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 91
Kudos: 97





	1. The fall and fall of Simon Snow

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic about tennis, doom scrolling and inconspicuous pizza deliveries, and is a present for myself, though I would be thrilled for you to read it, too. You don't need to follow tennis to read this fic - just bring a tolerance for bad jokes and enjoy the chaos. I hope you like it. <3

* * *

**TUESDAY || Day 2 of the Watford Open**

* * *

**SIMON**

Morning comes for me like an angry debt collector.

“Simon! Are you awake? You should have been up hours ago.”

 _No. I’m asleep_ — _mind your own business. REM cycles, all that good stuff._

“Simon Snow, are you seriously going to _ignore_ me? On this of all days!”

_This day? What makes this day so special? Fuck this day._

_I bloody hate Tuesdays._

“Simon, if I don’t see signs of life within the next five seconds, I’m going to be exceptionally cross. Don’t expect there to be anything left at the continental breakfast buffet.”

“For the love of John McEnroe, why won’t you let me _sleep?_ ”

I open my eyes, the world coming back to me in unpleasant flashes.

Tuesdays. Who invented them? Which monster decided that they had to happen over and over again as a never-ending punishment, like a fucking second-rate pop song with a catchy chorus?

Tuesdays. They’re the _Las Ketchup_ of weekdays.

“Simon, get up before I drag you out of bed by your Bananaman boxer shorts.”

Penny. Penny’s on _their_ side. (Tuesdays. She’s one of them. _The weekday people_.) (Fucking unbearable, the lot of them.) (Well, Fridays are alright. Weekend proximity.)

“We won’t sell any tea towels with your face printed on them if you sleep through your first round match.”

“Tea towels? My face? _What?”_

“Merchandise, Simon. Lendl knows it’s the only way we’ll make any money this fortnight.”

She pulls the covers off me and glares. I curl up into a ball ( _a tennis ball,_ fuck my life), but it’s too late — the shame of Bananaman has already been exposed. (How did she know I was wearing them? I _do_ own other boxer shorts.)

If Penny hates me this much, why doesn’t she sack me and find another player to harass? Or manage, I suppose. She _is_ good at her job. Any of the young hopeless hopefuls would be lucky to have her on their team.

I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t think my career would still be something I’d have to face, a decade on. I just wanted to whack at balls as hard as I could, because I was good at it.

And when I wasn’t good anymore, I wanted to stop.

In a sad twist of fate, I apparently have people _relying on me_ to get out of bed today. So I have to keep going. I have to keep playing tennis.

It’s unreasonable, if you ask me. Which nobody does.

In the life of a professional tennis player, the actual player gets last say in just about anything. (Except breakfast. Penny _does_ let me eat all the sausages I want.) (Three, generally. Three sausages, else I can’t get up to sprinting speed.)

“Alright, Pen — keep your bloody hair on.”

She lifts a hand to pat at her head, as if to check it’s still there. “My hair _is_ on, but yours _won’t_ be if you don’t get up. I will shave your head in your sleep, Simon Snow. I will wax off your eyebrows and dip you in green food colouring, until you closely resemble that which you are so afraid of.” She stands, hands on hips and face full of fury. If she’s not careful she’s going to sprain her wagging finger. “You missed your practice session this morning — the physio’s having kittens! Here you are, hours before a Grand Slam match, and you’re not even _dressed_. Get up and put some non-banana themed clothing on before I —”

“Before you what, sack me? I don’t see what kittens have got to do with anything.” I check my curls are where they’re supposed to be and chuck a pillow at her, grabbing another one to cover Bananaman. (The character. That’s not what I call my—) “This is way too much violence for eight o’ clock in the morning. I thought we agreed on the bollockings being a bit more gradual. Easing me into it.”

“It is _not_ eight o’ clock!” she seethes. Luckily for me, her phone starts going off — Darren the physio and his magical kittens, I think. This is good news because it means she can’t stay angry at me specifically. “It’s almost _eleven,_ Simon. You’re due on court in three hours.”

I whip around to check the clock — one of those eighties-looking things that are marooned on bedside tables in cheap hotels, much like the one we’re staying in. (Well, it’s London, so it’s not cheap. Nothing is. Had to pay two quid for a bottle of water from the vending machine in the middle of the night. And it wasn’t even cold!)

1 0 : 4 1 a m

Time blinks back at me in judging shades of red.

_Fuck. Bollocking wanking shit of a timepiece._

Penny wasn’t kidding — this is the worst I’ve overslept in weeks. And on the first day of the Watford Open!

Anyone would think I didn’t care about this tournament. (I don’t.)

They’d say I’ve given up on my career. (I have.) (Don’t tell Penny.)

Instead of telling her what I’m thinking, thus signing my own death warrant, I sigh. I dig my fingers into a plywood chest of drawers and pull out a pair of trackies and a polo shirt. Penny must have stayed up late last night — my last-minute sponsor’s logo is right there, stitched onto the shoulder.

It’s another sign of how far I’ve fallen. Most players at the top level have a proper sponsor — a sports brand, a car company, an airline. Baz has got a big name embroidered on his shirts — he’s been Nike since he came out of the womb swinging his racket. But us middle-of-the-road-yes-I-lost-in-the-first-round-yet-again types? No chance. Us mediocre talents struggle to attract the attention of the Nikes and Adidases of the world. (Adidi? Adidass’ss?)

A local business called us in the end, said they’d drop off a couple of iron-on patches — we stick them on my shirt sleeves, and they’ll pay us a good amount of cash depending on which round I get to. _“A good amount of cash”_ could mean anything, but to be honest, my bank account’s looking bleak. I’d be happy with a tenner and a packet of Wotsits.

Penny said yes to the business owner’s offer, then realised this wasn’t the sort of hotel that provided in-room irons. She said she’d sew them on, thus beginning the exciting task of locating a sewing kit at nine o’ clock on a Sunday night in central London.

The logo could definitely be worse — _Ebb’s All Natural Goat’s Cheese Experience_ doesn’t come close to the worst thing I’ve worn whilst playing. (There was the season of the hemorrhoid cream, which the savage corners of the internet will never let me live down.)

I sit on the end of my bed, pulling on the shirt and changing my socks for a white pair. That’s the rule at Watford — you have to wear white when you play. It’s from some stupid tradition no one remembers the origins of anymore; white socks, white shoes, white shorts, white shirt. If you’re inclined to wear something on your head — a bandana ( _not_ a banana) or a cap — that has to be white, too. It’s a Persil salesman’s wet dream.

Properly dressed, I grab my zip-up hoodie from where I left it on the chair last night. I can’t find my match shorts, so trackies will have to do until Penny’s off the phone. (Darren’s getting an earful. Something about his lack of _emergency stretching action plan._ ) I haven’t got a bloody clue where my trainers are. I was in a shit mood and chucked them somewhere. Under the bed? Worth a look.

“Penny,” I say, bending down. _Ah, there you are, you fuckers._ “Pen. Penny. Penelope. Pen. Do my pants have to be white, or do you think I’ll get away with the Transformers ones? Are they going to check?”

She ignores me, rattling off instructions to Darren. I sit on the end of the bed and doom-scroll on my phone for a bit.

It’s a bad idea. It’s only going to make me feel worse.

Whoever’s running my Instagram account this week proper hyped me up, which pisses me off. _That way disappointment lies._ They’ve posted pictures from training that don’t make me look like an out-of-shape has-been, aka _the truth_. (Can you be a has-been if you technically never were?) (A _never-was-been._ ) There are a few Twitter updates and a new post on my 90s-style Geoshitties blog — all related to _this_ , today’s glorious comeback at British tennis’s top level.

I haven’t played the Watford Open in four years. First it was injuries, then a suspension for _unsportsmanlike conduct._ (Smashed a few too many rackets.) After that, I couldn’t be arsed anymore. I wanted to retire; I wanted to fuck off to Ibiza and lose myself in the bottom of a Bacardi Breezer. Wash up on Brighton beach one day, looking like Noel Edmonds after he’s been salvaged from a ten-year bender.

But now I’m back, against all odds and to everyone’s surprise. (My own most of all.) (The Watford Lawn Tennis Club were shocked too. They offer me a wildcard every year — bet they had a meltdown when they saw that I accepted.)

Last time I was here, it was an embarrassing first round loss. I was roasted in the papers for days, until a member of that band Caterpillar Moustache got drunk at the Brit Awards and started a fight with Take That. Then the public forgot about me — they had Baz to cheer for, after all. He doesn’t let them down like I do.

Baz. Baz “can do no wrong and also looks good in a headband” Pitch.

Baz is the fucking darling of the court, isn’t he? The fans love him. My Wikipedia page gets edited to include a list of Snow’s worst volleys: the greatest hits, and his goes untouched. The man’s won one slam trophy in nine years of trying, but does that stop them from dropping to their knees in worship, every time he tosses a ball into the air? No.

Unfair. That’s what it is.

An unfair cycle of fuzzy balls and Baz’s impeccable forehand, following me wherever I go.

I am not a tennis player. I am one of life’s enduring punch lines.

_Simon Snow, British number two who never cracked the top ten._

_Simon Snow who never won a slam._

_Simon Snow, with a handful of lower-level titles to his name, and a fucking goat farm for a kit sponsor._

I close my eyes. Going online was a mistake; it always is.

_Breathe. You’re alright. You’ve done this a million times before._

_It’s just a tennis match. You’ll win or you’ll lose, and life will go on._

I swallow down the panic, sliding my phone into my bag, and discovering my match shorts scrunched inside a zipped compartment. Maybe Penny’s already stitched a patch on the arse for me: BRITISH #2.

Fuck. I’ve done shit-all in the ways of preparation. Skipped half my gym sessions, sleep-walked through Penny’s well-meaning practices. I’ll lose today, collect my money, and go back to doing nothing.

My white shoes shake against the carpet.

_Baz won’t be feeling like this. He spends his entire season preparing for Watford, even though he’s never won it._

No, Baz will be cool and calm and collected. He’ll be raring to go, even though he doesn’t play until tomorrow. (I checked. He’s in the other half of the draw.) (We won’t play each other unless Watford is struck by a meteor and all of the other players die horribly, except for me and Baz. And Centre Court is left miraculously intact.)

Penny walks over to me, trying not to look _too_ frustrated.

Maybe if I lose in the first round, she’ll finally drop me. She’ll realise she can do better and find another player. She shouldn’t have to be stuck with me, just because we grew up together. She doesn’t owe me anything, and I owe her so much.

“Are you ready to go? Where are your rackets?”

I shrug. She marches past me, checking in the wardrobe and under the coffee table. While she tries to sort out my life, I make the fatal mistake of picking up the telly remote to see what’s on.

The first channel I find that isn’t crackling static is _him,_ in full colour and slow-motion, sprinting back and forth across a court I recognise.

The practice courts at Watford. Number Three, the one I was meant to be on this morning. The one Penny booked for me. The one I never showed up at.

There he is, annoyingly handsome in HD. _Him._ Baz Pitch, British number one, right _there_ at the Watford Open. Getting ready for his second round match. (The top players get a bye for the first round — means they don’t have to play.) ( _First rounds are for players who can’t get a bye,_ he sneered at me once.)

Baz has never been world number one, but he’s been solidly top twenty for a decade. He doesn’t always get much further than me in Grand Slams, but he’s solid. Reliable. Committed.

Baz looks good today. Strong, fit. Someone’s probably already tweeted fifty times about how sexy he looks. (Not me.) (I _do_ follow Baz on Twitter but I _don’t_ save all of his pictures to my phone. Only tennis-related ones, like when he tried on his new kit at the start of the season.) 

He’s wearing black practice shorts. Isn’t anyone going to remind him about the dress code? If he needs a pair of white shorts, I guess he could borrow my spare pair.

The news reporter’s banging on about his chances for taking the Watford Open this year — winning the whole bloody thing. Doesn’t matter that he’s only won one big tournament, and that was over three years ago — every year it’s the same. _Baz Pitch is the best thing to happen to British tennis since Andy Murray’s withering sarcasm! We should rename Henman Hill “Pitch Point!” We should put his face on massive billboards along the M6 so Simon Snow has to look at him while he’s driving to nowhere and nearly crash his car into the central reservation!_

They’ve never talked about _me_ like that. Like I matter, like I’m something to hope for. Even when, for the briefest of times, I was above him in the rankings.

It was where I deserved to be, where I’d always _wanted_ to be — three steps above Baz, looking down on him. Putting him in his place, making _him_ reach up for _me_. _Finally. World number eleven, Simon Snow. World number fourteen, Basilton Pitch._

And then I fucked it up. (As usual.) Baz took a break, rested, _trained_ , and came back better than ever. He won the French Open — an Englishman, sliding on the red Parisian clay like he belonged! It was mental. Such a good time to follow tennis, to feel _passionate_ about it. We all thought he was going to do it — take that momentum and go to New York, ready to challenge for greatness.

I was happy for him. I really was. His mum was a smashing tennis player in her time — Natasha Pitch won everything. He told me once, on one of the rare days we were nice to each other, that all he wanted in life was to make her proud, and he’d done it. He’d got there.

Things change, though. Sport’s a funny thing. You can feel like you’re on cloud nine and still lose. Take a beating, a kicking, a drubbing.

Baz’s season went downhill after Paris. He kept playing, but he never got over the loss that met him in New York. (Lamb, then thirty-two years old and suspiciously spry, top of the rankings and unbeaten in twenty matches. He destroyed Baz in three swift, brutal sets.)

He kept playing. But he’s never challenged for the top again, and I don’t know if he will — we’re not spring chickens anymore, in tennis terms. We’re twenty-seven, other players hitting their peaks around us, when it feels like we’ve given all we had.

Baz changed. I did, too. We used to get along in our own stiff, awkward way. We’d pass each other in the corridor at a tournament and high-five, send each other good luck texts and check in after a loss. We were mates. After he lost in New York, I reached out but he never replied. Everything stopped. He disappeared, and when he came back he focused on rebuilding his career, while I focused on fucking up mine.

Three years, gone in a blink.

He looks exactly the same. It’s like he isn’t aging, ignoring the creak of time as it passes the rest of us by.

I watch him slide on the green grass of Watford. The reporter’s still harping on about how amazing he is, how he’s Britain’s _true hope for a Watford Open win this year._ They don’t mention me at all. I’m the second highest ranked Brit in the draw, if you don’t include Agatha, but I’m not even in his periphery. I never really was.

I turn the telly off and flop onto the bed, listening as Penny grumbles about string tension. That’s not her job — she’s just my manager. Or publicist, whatever. But she knows I’m having a hard time, so she does her best to care in my place.

I screw my eyes shut and try to forget everything. Who I am, where I am, the Watford Open. That I’m going to walk out onto Court One today and make a complete fucking fool of myself on live television. I block out the shape of Baz’s face, the line of his jaw, the stretch of skin leading down into the collar of his shirt. (Definitely _don’t_ need to be thinking about skin, right now.)

_He doesn’t give a toss about you. Three years without a word._

_Focus on your tennis, for the love of Andre Agassi._

This isn’t good. I might not be able to _see_ him with my eyes closed, but he’s here with me regardless. He’s every headline that’ll greet me in the morning, every missed opportunity that’ll haunt me for the rest of my life.

I can picture it now, even though I don’t want to. The sort of headlines that make a man want to retire to a quaint countryside hamlet and take up knitting, to relieve the stress.

Maybe if I shut my eyes and wish sincerely, I’ll wake up somewhere else. I’ll have a normal job and a normal life, selling sausage rolls and paper cups of tea.

I’ll wake up and I won’t be Simon Snow, the worst tennis player who’s ever played tennis. (That’s what Baz called me after I lost to him in Melbourne. He compared my serve to the last act of a desperate man, swatting at flies.)

Yeah, that sounds good. I’ll close my eyes for a minute. Penny won’t mind. She might not notice.

WHAT HAPPENED TO SIMON SNOW? asks the news report in my head.

WHAT HAPPENED TO SIMON?

WHAT HAPPENED? 

(Good question.)

WHAT?

WHAT

(Don’t ask me. Ask Baz.)

W—

(!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Text version of the headlines:
> 
>  **SIMON SNOW LOSES FIRST ROUND MATCH**  
>  _BRITAIN’S BIGGEST EMBARRASSMENT BASHES BALLS, SMASHES RACKETS_  
>  **  
> OH, HOW THE SNOW FALLS IN LONDON!**  
>  BRITISH #2 LOSES IN HIS FIRST MATCH FOR FOUR MONTHS
> 
> **BRITAIN’S LAST HOPE**  
>  _ALL EYES ON BAZ PITCH HEADING INTO THE WATFORD OPEN!_
> 
>  **THE FALL AND FALL OF SIMON SNOW**  
>  ONCE DUBBED “THE CHOSEN ONE OF TENNIS”, BRITAIN’S FADING HOPE FOR A WATFORD TROPHY IS ON A FAST TRACK TO EARLY RETIREMENT.


	2. The trouble with Basilton Pitch

**BAZ**

I step off the practice court five minutes before the end of my allotted time — it’s very nearly sacrilege, but I can’t take another minute of staring. Heads turn to watch me go, tipped together and lost to muttering. I usually take every moment made available to me, remaining ever ruthless in my work; I’ve booked the court, after all. My name’s on the dotted line. It’s only fair to bleed what I can from these dwindling minutes.

But alas, the lack of privacy today is disconcerting. A swarm of news reporters and curious spectators are beginning to gather by the chain-link fence, and I feel anxiety creeping in, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end.

_The pressure, it builds. I never truly escaped it, did I?_

I toss my racket into my bag and haul it up onto my shoulder. There’s a twinge in my left knee; a hangover from a minor injury suffered last season. I wait for it to pass. _There we are. No falling apart, old boy._

I don’t usually insult my shampoo-advertisement-worthy hair with something as demeaning as a casual hat, but I’m glad for such attire right now — I tug it down over my eyes and speed-walk towards the gate, held open by an overly-enthusiastic member of staff.

“Great session, Mr Pitch! Your forehand’s looking tight!”

“I have no interest in knowing what you might find _tight_ about my game, thank you very much.”

I steal a look at the man’s ID tag as I pass. _Rhys Racquet, Chief Gate-Opener of the Watford Open._

My lip curls. “Is your surname really Racquet?”

“Yep.”

I make a mental note to have him barred from my next practice session.

Once away from the lenses and public, I quickly get lost in the maze of quiet corridors that make up the players’ area. I can relax here; no one dares speak to me, except for my team. I can move around like an unfriendly ghost.

Out of habit and whilst I’m alone, my hand snakes inside a zip-up pocket in my bag, pulling out my mobile phone. I’m on a solid social media ban, courtesy of my overbearing aunt, but she’s not here right now. She’ll never know if I take a quick peek at what the masses are saying about me.

Instagram, Twitter, Reddit, in that order. If I see a kind comment it’ll wash over me like so many deflected compliments, but if I see a cruel one, it’ll haunt me all night. So it goes.

I hear my mother’s voice in my head, an echo of what could have been. _My darling, when you’re older you won’t waste time worrying what the world thinks of you. In all ways, you will shine._

Oh, mother. If only. Worrying is all I’m good for these days.

I don’t want to care about what the world is saying, but _wanting_ doesn’t stop me from _looking_. The void of Instagram can only increase the sick feeling that’s been settling in my stomach since yesterday morning, but I can’t help it. Scrolling makes the time pass. My swirling dread over tomorrow’s match runs rampant in my mind, and the puerile photographs of nothing soothe it somewhat.

There’s another concern there, I find, lingering in the deep.

_Simon Snow. You’ve an important match today._

_Why weren’t you practising alongside me?_

“Nice bit of luck, aye boyo?”

I shove the phone back inside my bag as my aunt rounds the corner. She’s contemptible in her Prius-like trainers, constantly sneaking up on me. If there’s anything Fiona Pitch loves more than lamenting my lost potential, it’s a loving family lecture; I’ve no interest in being caught breaking one of her interminable rules.

Fiona — my coach, trainer, life manager, affectionate tyrannical dictator — grins as she slips the bag from my shoulder, squeezing my arm more tightly than she needs to. I hold on stubbornly to the strap, reluctant to let my fingers stray too far from that cruel, taunting touchscreen.

“Luck? What are you talking about?” I ask. I suppose my forehand _was_ impressive today, just as Rhys the Tightly Strung Racquet had observed, though it’s insulting of her to deem it mere _luck_.

“Snow!” she says, making another move on the bag as I flinch involuntarily. (This time, she wins.) (It’s like arm-wrestling a rhino.) “Don’t s’pose we should be all that shocked, really. He never was one for getting out of bed on time, even at the academy.”

His name is like a punch to the stomach, even after the years between.

Three. Three years without the myth of blue eyes and the legend of shattered rackets, trailing me like the aftermath of a bad dream. It was _my_ decision to cut things off, bidding farewell to our text conversations and casual friendship. Ridding myself of this infernal distraction in human form.

I haven’t seen him in so long, but one mention of his name brings it rushing back, like a — well, it’s beneath me to make such an obvious comparison, but I’ll do it anyway. Like an _avalanche._

“I’ve no idea of Snow’s time-keeping habits,” I mutter. My hands are shaking; I push them into my pockets so she won’t notice. Even though I know Snow’s entire draw off by heart, I feign stupidity. “Who’s he meant to be playing today, Weatherly?”

Fiona is tapping at her own phone, arranging whatever comes next. I watch her grey eyes morph in the glow. I get little say in how my days are spent; as my coach, much of the day-to-day scheduling is left to my aunt and her wicked ways. Thus far she _has_ managed not to kill me, so I try not to complain.

“Arteau,” she says without looking up. She’s decked from head to toe in Pitch merchandise, the latest line. Black on black on pitch. (See what I did there?) It blends tragically with her nest of hair, streaked with white.

I swallow, pretending not to care for Snow’s opponent. I shouldn’t have his side of the draw memorised — it hardly affects _me_ — but I do. I’ve spent many hours mentally calculating Snow’s ideal route to the final, ever since the first round matches were announced. I still can’t believe he accepted the bloody wildcard, but he _does_ love to shock and offend.

The Watford Open final. Two weeks away, a lifetime. It seems impossible it could ever be real.

If he gets there, he’ll face me. (Assuming I make it through my own matches.) (A few years ago a quarter-final would have been a given, but no more. The third round would be an excellent result, and more than I deserve.)

_Simon Snow vs Thomas Arteau. His first top-level match in months._

I shouldn’t worry. I’ve enough on my own plate to contend with. Snow can look after himself. (Theoretically.)

_But oh, I hope you win today._

“Look lively, Basil — your press conference starts in fifteen minutes. How’s the knee?”

A man stands in the doorway ahead, silver-white in a pinstripe suit. My father, chronically overdressed and never less than fifty-percent harassed, at any given time. He makes for a fine brand manager, and personal manager, and financial manager. The man was born to reluctantly tell other people what to do.

“It’s fine,” I say truthfully. There have been no more twinges. “I’d rather not go ahead with the conference, though. I’m tired.”

He wrinkles his nose the way my mother used to, when I said I didn’t want to practise my serve. I’m not sure if it’s a habit he picked up from her or the other way around, and I suppose I’ll never know.

“Nonsense, Basilton. The press is a necessary part of the circus.”

_The circus._

_Yes. I suppose you’re right._

I would make for a glorious clown.

Press conferences, phone calls, warm-ups and cool downs. I don’t get asked what I _want_ to be doing at any point — and it’s wise of them, because none of those around me would want to hear the answer.

 _I wanted to win tennis matches and be left alone._ That was always my mantra.

Then, for a short time, I wanted to win tennis matches and be left alone _with one other person in particular._

Now, three years after banishing said person in order to focus on rebuilding a career I’m not entirely sure I want, I don’t know what it is.

_Snow. One mention of you and the world’s upside down._

_Congratulations._

“Come on, boyo — up the pace. Last time you kept the Watford Chronicle waiting, they printed your photo next to an artistic rendering of Dracula and played spot the difference.” Fiona glares at a tournament assistant until they go away, her hair wild and in her face, then punches at buttons on a half-empty vending machine. (Ridiculous that they expect us to pay for our own refreshments. Is my participation not payment enough?) “Here you are, I’ll get you a cuppa. Won’t be the best, but it’ll brighten you up a bit.”

We stand in awkward silence as the machine whirs into life, hot water dripping into a paper cup. I’m not convinced Fiona put any money into the machine — punching things is instinctive for her, and almost always effective.

“I’m not thirsty.”

“Course you are,” she says, like I’m a child. “Drink up, lad. Wet your gob for all the talking you’ll be doing.”

I do as I’m told, but only because the water seems hot enough to scald. I can hardly be expected to discuss strategy and ambition without a functioning tongue.

“The questions have been vetted in advance,” my father is saying, looking anxiously around the next corner. There’s no decent ventilation in the players’ area, but he hasn’t taken his jacket off. I can see sweat gathering on his neck above his collar. I honestly think he’s willing himself _not_ to perspire — if anyone can do it it’s Malcolm Grimm, Ice King of Media Relations. “You need only give the answers we prepared last night. The Chronicle has been expressly reminded not to mention New York.”

My stomach roils at this second sudden, ugly jolt of memory.

_New York. No, we don’t speak of it._

It wasn’t my worst loss, by any means. My second consecutive major semi-final, and one I was expected to lose on paper. Lamb, of course, was going to win — I was the underdog, despite coming off the back of a victory in Paris. Despite having lifted my first major trophy, mere months before. Lamb does that, you see; he _wins_. He wants something, he gets it. It would’ve been downright rude of me to beat him.

No, it wasn’t my worst loss.

But like my rift with Snow, it still stings keenly, three years on.

Fiona grips my elbow as weak, watery tea drips on the floor between us. “After this, we’ll get you in the gym. We’ll set you up on a stationary bike to work some of that tension out of yer legs. Cool that knee down.”

I nod. Agree. _Yer legs, of course._ Acquiesce. What else can I do?

I don’t have to play until tomorrow; that’s a blessing. Because of my ranking — world number nine; not the lofty heights I’d hoped to reach, but at least I’m back in the top ten — I get to skip the first round completely. Theoretically I could’ve spent the day in bed, resting and researching my opponent.

But _rest_ is not within the vocabulary of a Pitch. My mother, one of the greatest women’s tennis players in the history of the sport, would never have wasted a day. Fiona, who seems to view herself as the very incarnation of her sister’s more competitive aspects, insists it’s good that I’m here from day one. Stalking the halls, staking a claim. Practising, preparing. Taking things seriously. It’ll send a strong message to the rest of the draw.

_You need to look like a winner, and then your game will fall into place around it._

_You’re a champion. Never, ever forget. They’ll try to take everything from you, but they can’t have that._

Another heave deep inside me. I _do_ take it seriously — the matches, the sport. I’ve earnt a lot of money and made a lot of people happy by taking my career and myself very, very seriously.

But...

...I’m _tired._ The joy isn’t there anymore. The simple love of the game.

I’ve spent three years since New York trying to get it back. I’ve pushed away everyone I was close to, everyone I got along with. I pushed away the one person I...

“Are we ready?” my father asks, interrupting my thoughts. He ushers me around the corner to a narrow doorway, frowning as he picks fluff out of my hair. I often wonder if I’ll look like him in a few years. Grey with stress and lines a mile deep. (Saying that, he regularly tops Green Fuzzy Balls’ list of _Top Most Handsome Tennis Dads,_ so I don’t suppose it’s all bad news.)

I see words printed in peeling paint on a wooden door, looming like an omen. PRESS ROOM: PLAYERS’ ENTRANCE. Beyond, I can hear chattering and laughter — the lions, lining up to eye their prey.

“Ten minutes until microphones go on,” Fiona says, ever so helpfully. “Basil, get over here and look lively.”

There it is again; the Pitch motto. The Pitch way.

_Look lively? Not likely._

I place my hands against the wall and stretch my legs behind me, the left and then the right, feeling the burn. I won’t have a chance to change into sensible trousers and a clean shirt, but at least I can hide most of myself behind the table. I’m once again grateful for the wild decision to wear a hat this morning — the cameras won’t see much of me. (I was, inevitably, thinking about Snow. He’s always wearing some fashion disaster or other atop his unruly head.) (The season he was into berets was a bloody nightmare.)

My hair is sticking out around my ears, lank and in dire need of a comb...but I’ve put on worse public displays. It will do.

When my aunt holds up a jacket embroidered with the Pitch family crest, I step it into it wordlessly. It’s got my sponsor’s logo printed on one sleeve, the roman numeral I on the other. _One. One slam, one victory that counts. Baz Pitch, the one slam wonder._

It’s pretentious, but I admit it looks good. It’s just the right degree of arrogance.

“Is this press conference strictly necessary?” I ask, still hoping to worm my way out of it, unsure why I agreed in the first place. _Did_ I agree? Was this another arrangement passed down to Fiona’s hungry ears, but never my own? Possibly things had gone well in training, and in a moment of blithe overconfidence I said _yes, I’ll talk to the press. Address the nation and promise them my first-class efforts._

I get ahead of myself sometimes. I make decisions that Future Baz sorely regrets. It’s why I’m still here, trying to prove a point no one’s interested in.

My heart pounds as I stretch the last of the ache from my limbs. I’m very aware that I need a shower — the one saving grace of holding a press conference now is that none of the reporters will want to stay in the same room as me for long. We’ll be done within minutes, not hours.

“What else is there to say?” I hear myself ask, suddenly fearful. At some point since I last suffered a deliberate thought, my hands have crept their way into my bag to retrieve my phone. Fiona hasn't noticed. I thumb surreptitiously through apps, learning nothing and enjoying it not, until she catches me and hides my phone in one of her cavernous pockets. It is, in all ways, an effective measure; there are life forms down there I dare not fathom.

“What have I told you about doom-scrolling?” she snaps. “The phone stays with me for the foreseeable, Basil. And what are you so afraid of the papers for? You’ve usually got plenty to say.”

“The tournament hasn’t even started yet,” I say pathetically. “No one gives a bloody damn for what I have to say about anything other than tennis.”

 _“Our_ tournament hasn’t started,” Fiona corrects, handing me a bottle of water she seems to have acquired from the vending machine through sheer vindictiveness alone. “Chug that down as well. Hydrate — you’ve gone a bit peaky. The tournament _as a whole_ is already under way — play’s starting on the outer courts as we speak. They got a slew of matches done yesterday, before the rain came.”

I hide a yawn from her, jogging on the spot to work off the residual nerves. My father’s hunched over with an assistant of some sort, mortally ruining his posture to mutter something in the man’s ear about earpieces.

“I’ve changed my mind. I’d rather not go in there,” I say, hearing a cheer go up from the practice courts outside. My stomach twists itself into an uncomfortable pastiche of a pretzel.

_Has he finally decided to show his face?_

_Simon Snow, unfashionably late to the biggest event of the year._

An official-looking man in a Watford Open jacket stalks past, muttering into a walkie-talkie — _“Lamb out on court two. Is security there? We don’t need another barrier breach like last time. It’s his hair, I swear to god. It drives them wild!”_

My heart plummets. Pretzel, undone. It’s not Snow, then — just the impossibly in-form world number one (who also happens to be a complete and utter arse), fresh from his thirty-fifth birthday celebrations in Corfu. How very gracious of Charles “if you’re beneath me in the rankings I can’t possibly be expected to remember your name” Lamb, to bless our modest tournament with his illustrious presence.

“Tyrannus! Are you listening? Now’s _not_ the time to be wandering off to cloud cuckoo land!”

As a trainer and physio my aunt is efficient and relentless, but she’s also fearsome. _She used my first name; I’d best behave._ She’s balanced out nicely by my father, who carries a politely guarded interest in tennis, but perhaps only a third of her enthusiasm for success. As far as Team Pitch goes, father is the brains, I am the theoretical brawn, and Fiona is the feral toddler kicking and screaming until she gets what she wants.

“Appearances,” Father says, as if the word might have value. “Projecting confidence is key, Basilton. We want the world to know you’re ready.”

I disguise my apprehension behind the bottle of water as I drain it dry.

“Let’s get this over with,” I say to nobody.

_But what if I’m not ready? What if my place in tennis went away long ago?_

I ask Fiona if I can check my reflection in the camera app on my phone, but she says no. “Pull the other one, sunshine. You’re a sweaty mess — do you really want to see a grown man crying out of his eyebrows?”

Mortified, I follow my team/family/eternal antagonists through the open door, along another featureless corridor to my impending collision with other people’s opinions. As we go I hear mutterings from passing assistants, Watford Open staff and volunteers who crane their necks to watch as I pass.

_“That’s Baz Pitch! Do you think he’ll get through the second round this year?”_

_“I don’t know. Probably? He’s got a good draw until the semis. No way he’s beating Lamb. Hey, did you hear about Snow_ — _”_

I do my best to listen in, this last name ever the one I’m desperate to hear, but I can’t catch whatever gossip might be newly circulating.

In theory, Snow’s a willing participant at this year’s tournament — after a few seasons of lackadaisical ineptitude, he has set his heart upon a mid-to-late career resurgence, like I have. (Advancements in sports science and nutrition means tennis players can push far beyond twenty-seven these days. But when you’re not born as one of the Roger Federers or Charles Lambs of the world, it’s hard not to count each season beyond twenty-five as your last.)

“Any word on Snow?” I whisper to Fiona. She’s talking loudly into her phone about acquiring a car to take us back to the hotel. It’s good that she doesn’t hear me; she’d box my ears in if she knew how often he trespassed on my thoughts.

I increase the pace to match my father and pose the same question. He’s _also_ on his phone, though he’s gracious enough to pull it away from his ear to answer me.

“What’s that?”

“Snow,” I repeat, trying to keep my face blank. “We walked past two assistants just now — they mentioned him. What’s the news? Has he arrived?”

Father eyes me warily, eyebrow threatening to arch.

I always assume he’s never listening or paying attention, because he’s frightfully busy with the managerial side of things. Fending off photographers, dealing with interviewers, coping with sponsors’ emails…

But he sees more than he says.

“He missed practice, Basil. Didn’t you come across a defamatory tweet or two, whilst you were scrolling?”

I feign insouciance. “I was hardly reading the _news_ , father. Least of all the tennis section. What do you take me for, a _fan_?”

Father whispers a fond farewell to the speaker on the far end of the call — must be my stepmother, he’s rarely this affectionate with anybody else — and pulls me away from potential eavesdroppers. (ie. Fiona and her worst tendencies.)

“By all accounts, Snow _is_ on the premises — though he’s been barred from setting foot beyond the players’ entrance hall, as he’s wearing underpants with robots on them.”

I tip my head back, ensuring the ceiling gets the full brunt of my derisive groan.

 _“Robots?”_ He had a soft spot for Transformers, as I remember. For a short while he insisted on calling his racket Optimus Prime. “Though I’m sure he’ll have forgotten many useful facts of life during his absence, he surely remembers that at Watford one wears _white_.”

(I say, whilst insolently wearing black shorts. I'll get away with it, and look good whilst doing so.)

Father’s interest is already drifting; he has never understood my fascination with Simon Snow. I’ve kept my monitoring of his career to myself these past few seasons, but now that my old rival has reared his head at the Watford Open, well...I’m going to have to locate some self-control. (Does anyone have a map?)

_Snow. Keep your antics and robots to yourself._

_And stay far away from me._

My tired limbs wish we were already at the hotel, head pushed under a hot shower. We’re not staying at the usual place this year _—_ I waited too long to accept the invitation to the tournament, and we couldn’t get rooms. There was once a time I could have had anywhere in London rolling out the red carpet for me. After trawling last-minute TripAdvisor deals (an experience unlike any other), my aunt found space in a modest four-star, three miles from the tournament grounds. It’s good in a way, though three miles in London is akin to twenty anywhere else _—_ the press would never anticipate the son of Natasha Pitch, five-time Watford Open champion and one of the nation’s greatest tennis success stories, staying in a _four star_ hotel.

“...waste of a wildcard, if you ask me,” my aunt mutters in my ear, bringing me back from my latest foray into the past. “I’m writing a petition for next year. _Say no to Snow._ Give one of the young up-and-comers a chance, instead. He’ll be out on his arse in the first round again, nursing a can of Strongbow with a trail of smashed rackets in his wake.”

I don’t say what I think; I don’t desire the argument.

_Snow deserves a thousand second chances, after what the tennis world has put him through._

Fiona puts a hand on my arm as we stand on the threshold of the conference room _—_ she peers at me suspiciously, as though able to sense my traitorous thoughts.

“Earth to Basil _—_ are you feeling alright?”

“Yes,” I nod, thinking about my nemesis scraping himself out of bed. _Robots. Resist the allure of the robots._ “Just tired. I hope this is over soon.”

It won’t be, but we must allow ourselves such frivolous things as hope.

Fiona goes over the pre-prepared questions, those we’ve requested they not ask and ones they probably will anyway. I try to concentrate on her word-perfect responses, the picture I ought to be painting — the golden child back where he belongs, cool and calm and effortlessly collected. The Pitch dynasty’s latest push for a glistening Watford trophy. One to make the public feel the sharp tang of relief, and one to make my mother proud.

_Your legacy, Basilton, will be etched in silver._

It’s all a lie. I’m a wreck.

But we’ll never let them see.

Father pats me on the back before we go in. I can’t concentrate; he might as well be passing his hand through water. I squint at him, biting my lip. I must look a fright.

“Easy, son. You’ve done this a hundred times.”

I’m too sick with nerves to enjoy his rare use of the familial. I know that all he has done these past ten years has been for me — the travel, the constant stress and sacrifice. He has supported me in following in my mother’s footsteps, and he would’ve supported me if I’d gone the other way instead. Announced my intentions to become a hairdresser, or what have you. He’d be there through it all, with his best suit on and a fair suggestion in his head.

“I know,” I say, when I can speak at all. “You’re right. It’ll be fine. Shipshape and Bristol fashion.”

He presses his lips into a line and nods.

_Probably._

I’m thinking about Snow and his robot underwear. Damn and blast his ability to get in my head.

“Time to go,” my aunt announces. “They’re ready for you — knock ‘em dead, boyo.”

I could walk in there and tell them the truth. That I don’t know why I’m doing this, why I keep coming here year after year. I feel like I’m chasing someone else's nostalgia.

Snow was always good at this part. The talking, the charming. Twisting the press around his little finger. He thinks himself hopeless, but people _like_ him. They naturally want him to do well. The papers have taken their share of jabs at him over the years, but there’s a current of encouragement underpinning it all. They _want_ him to come back, even when they knock him down. He’s the entertainment, the showstopper.

I know what awaits me in there. Unfavourable comparisons to Lamb, to my mother. All that was foretold, and all I’m yet to achieve.

 _Baz Pitch is a waste of funding, a waste of sponsorship. Nice hair, though. And his table manners are great. Last time Snow attended the champions ball, he tried to dissect his lobster with a_ _teaspoon._

If I waver for a moment, the house of cards might come crashing down. Father places his hand between my shoulder blades, and I let that steady me.

_Robots. That might be nice. To do as commanded and not have to think._

On the far side of the door, instead of saying anything close to what I feel and fear, I smile and introduce myself to a roomful of strangers.

I’ve met them all a hundred times before, though they don’t know me.


	3. Green Fuzzy Balls presents...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re unfamiliar with tennis and want to know more, here are some basic definitions of the main shots:
> 
>  **Serve:** The shot that begins the point. The player tosses the ball up above their head, and with their racket arm, swings overhead to hit it over the net and into the service box. You have two chances to serve the ball successfully; if you miss both, your opponent wins the point. Your first serve is a chance to hit the ball hard and fast to gain an advantage. Your second serve is usually slower and more of a “safety” shot, to get the ball in play. If you serve a ball that your opponent cannot return, it’s called an ace.  
>  **Forehand:** This shot is hit from the dominant side of your body. If you are right-handed, the ball comes to your right side, and the palm of your hand is facing the net as you swing the racket. This is usually, but not always, a player’s strongest shot.  
>  **Backhand:** Opposite to a forehand. The ball is hit from the non-dominant side of your body. If you are right-handed, the ball comes to your left side, and you reach across your body with the racket to hit the ball. The back of your hand, this time, is facing the net.  
>  **Volley:** In tennis, you can let the ball bounce once on your side of the net before hitting it back. A volley is when you don’t wait for it to bounce. You hit the ball out of the air before it touches the ground. It is also possible to hit a half-volley, where you reach the ball in the split second after it bounces.  
>  **Drop shot:** The ball is hit gently, taking all of the pace from it - it lands just over the net, forcing your opponent to run in quickly to try to reach it in time.  
>  **Lob:** You hit the ball high and deep, preferably over your opponent’s head, to try to force them back if they are closer to the net. They have to scramble to get there in time, disrupting the rhythm.  
>  **Smash:** If your lob is not high or deep enough, the opponent can smash the ball to win the point. The shot looks like a serve - a high overhead swing at the ball, “smashing” it down very quickly. It’s possible to return a smash, but often this will end the point.
> 
> If you’d like to see a visual of each shot, here’s a short video with examples (be aware that there is, inexplicably, a shirtless man in this video):  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y6Bhl1nmmyk
> 
> Written explanation of tennis shots:  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tennis_shots
> 
> Link to a more detailed explanation of the scoring system than what appears in this chapter:  
> https://www.sportingnews.com/us/tennis/news/tennis-scoring-explained-rules-system-points-terms/7uzp2evdhbd11obdd59p3p1cx

**🎾 Green Fuzzy Balls Live Commentary: Day 2 of the Watford Open 🎾  
**

**Gareth:** _“Hello there! If you’re just joining us today, welcome to Green Fuzzy Balls, the number one destination for play-by-play coverage of this year’s Watford Open. You can call us GFB, which is definitely_ not _to be confused with the BFG, because let’s face it — we’re not all that friendly! I’m your host Gareth de Gates, a former top 200 player who once trained with living legend Tim “COME ON, TIGER!” Henman. I’m here with Geoff, and together we're going to take you through a jam-packed day of quality tennis action. Coming up next on Court One, we have the Grand Slam return of one of Britain’s former brightest stars, Simon Snow..._

_It’s a hard ask for someone aged 27 to make a serious run for the title, isn’t it Geoff? The old guard, all in their 30s now, are standing firm at the top of the rankings. On the other side of the net you’ve got these youngsters coming up — the NowNext Gen, they’re calling themselves, given their bloodthirstiness — and that means there’s this entire generation of players who got lost in the middle. Snow’s generation, Pitch’s generation. They didn’t reach the top three, never pushed for big titles — except for Pitch, that one year in Paris._

_It’s nice to see the crowd giving Snow a generous welcome as he walks onto court, looking like he lost a fight with every off-brand sporting goods manufacturer you can name. It’s got to be said, Watford knows how to welcome back a perennial underachiever; after some of his past antics here, Snow might’ve been expecting boos. But that’s something he’ll always have in his favour — tennis fans want to see their own succeed. They have, after all, paid out of their arse for these tickets._

_Snow’s not the only Brit in the field this year, of course — we’ve already mentioned the nation’s number one, Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, who is in the other half of the men’s draw. We’ve also got excellent representation in both the women’s and doubles tournaments, courtesy of Agatha Wellbelove and the ever-interesting duo of Dev Grimble-Ditch and Niall Norbury. They’ll be making runs for silverware of their own this fortnight._

_The Snow-Arteau match gets underway, after Arteau elects to receive, and it’s a tired first serve from Simon Snow. It hits the net and sets a dire tone for the match. Geoff, do you think Snow took so much time off that he’s forgotten how to play? Skipping practice this morning probably hasn’t helped! But Snow follows up that initial lacklustre effort with a decent forehand, leaving his opponent floundering. So maybe there’s hope for him yet…”_

**SIMON**

I don’t know if I’ve ever been this nervous before. Maybe that time I appeared on _A Question of Sport_ and somehow managed to score -10 points — I felt the disappointment of a nation that day. Sue Barker will never forgive me. (Years later, Penny tried to rope me into a game of Trivial Pursuit, but I couldn’t do it. The trivia cards were giving me flashbacks.)

The court’s packed, or that’s how it looks from here _—_ it can’t be a complete sell-out, because let’s face it, who’d want to come and watch me lose yet another tennis match? Surely the nation’s had its fill of that. You can go on YouTube and watch twenty-minute long _Simon Snow’s Epic Losing Face!_ compilations. (One of them’s got over a million hits.)

I don’t spend too much time counting the empty seats — the only thing that matters is locating my player’s box. The safe haven where Penny sits with whoever she’s paid to be my mate that day. (She doesn’t actually pay people to be my friends.) (Sometimes they do it for free.)

There she is, over my shoulder as always. Watching and hoping for the best.

My physio’s with her _—_ he’s also called Simon, and is currently fresh from giving me a bollocking in the locker room. (Prick.) (The name thing causes a lot of confusion. It shouldn’t, because you come across all sorts of Simons in life. But it’s hard having a conversation with Penny when she’s trying to shout at both of us at once.)

And that’s it. That’s my team. The ones who’ve stuck with me. They’re not the only ones in the box, though — that’s good to see. Penny catches my eye, and tries to cross her fingers and give a thumbs-up at the same time.

She’s sitting next to a bloke I don’t know, wearing denim and a massive grin _—_ wait, isn't he a doubles player? _—_ and _he’s_ sitting next to Agatha, who should probably be somewhere else, getting ready for her own match. (I want to shout at her about _the importance of sticking to schedules_ , but shouting’s frowned upon at Watford.) (Pretty much everything is frowned upon at Watford. There’s a whole lot of frowning and a whole lot of balls, and that’s about it.) She’s a cracking player _—_ last year, she was top of the rankings for a bit. Agatha doesn’t take the sport too seriously, though. When I asked her how she handled the pressure she said she didn’t; she delegated it to one of her assistants, and took a long hot bubble bath.

They’re here today, the ones who know me. The ones who lift me when I’m down. (Well, not so much Simon the physio. He’s the cause of a fair few of those downs, owing to his too-vigorous massages.)

I break away from the box to stare at my feet, just as the umpire calls an end to the warm-up. Penny shouts my name and I try to smile, though it probably comes out as more of a grimace. (Yeah, I’ve got one of _those_ faces. Agatha calls it Resting Pitch Face.) Still, I _am_ happy they’re here. Taking up precious hours just to see me through to the other side, win or lose. They know I’ve been shitting bricks about this match for weeks.

The crowd claps and cheers, and that means it’s time to stand up and _look lively_ , as Baz would say. He was in the press room when I arrived, no doubt talking himself up to the papers _—_ I saw his mad aunt loitering by a closed door, looking smug. (She stuck her fingers up at me. Such a delight.)

The spectators fall silent as I walk to the baseline, three fuzzy green balls balanced on my racket strings. I wonder if that podcast team is doing the commentary this year _—_ BFG, is it? They’re usually nice. (Well, not _nice_. But the jokes aren’t as outright offensive as they _could_ be.)

My mind’s trapped in the recent past, like a scratched Spice Girls CD that can’t get past track two. (Stop right now, thank you _very_ much.)

We got stuck in traffic on the way here — I thought I was going to be late for the match. Then we arrived, but a security bloke at the players’ entrance tried to turn me away because my pants weren’t white. (Fucking Starscream. Fucking off-brand, upsettingly transparent shorts.) I had to go to the locker room and change because they don’t match the dress code. Penny found a decent pair in the bottom of my kit bag and we’re both hoping they’re mine.

The security guard, who likes his job a bit _too_ much if you ask me — probably Baz’s one remaining superfan — let me in after Penny lectured him. Once he’d accepted I wasn’t just some rando off the street pretending to be a player.

“I’m Simon Snow,” I said, embarrassed enough to be burning. I hate pulling the name card. It reminds me of the time I said it to a bouncer at the Magic Box nightclub in Birmingham, trying to impress whoever passed for a date at the time. The bloke squinted at me and said, _Who? Simon Snowbody?_

The security guard wasn’t being nasty, at least. (What did his ID badge say? Rhys something?) He was just doing his job. “Oh,” he said, scratching his cheek. “Really? I thought you’d be taller.”

_Same, mate. Same. But we can’t all be six-foot-and-spare-change beanpoles like Baz Pitch._

I try to scrub the moment from my mind as I stare at my trainers, already scuffed across the toes with green. Hopefully “all-white with grass stains” still meets the clothing standards. I look across the net to where Arteau stands. He’s taller than me (knob), with wavy dark hair and sunglasses. He looks a bit like Baz, if Baz decided to get a tan and leave off the sneering for ten minutes. That gets me going, for some reason. _The real Baz isn’t here, so I’ll have to take it out on you._

I don’t know Arteau that well — he’s a few years younger, and players tend to stick with their own on tour. I’m sure he’s nice, but I was never great at the social stuff. I finish a match and just want to get through what comes after so I can unwind in a hotel room, with a can of Vimto in one hand and a PlayStation controller in the other.

Arteau nods. The Silent Nod is a sacred unwritten tennis code, so I nod back. Then we wait for the umpire to call our names and say that dreaded word: _play._

(Play. Yeah, that’s right. I’m here to play tennis.)

Arteau is moderately successful. More consistent than me, not as good as Baz. He’s a typical grass court player — lots of volleys, short points, fast footwork. Nothing bad, but nothing surprising; it’s the tennis I grew up playing, though I was never great at the whole _effortlessly graceful_ thing. Our games are pretty similar.

(It’s like it’s happening from far enough away, an echo in my ear.)

Except we’re _not_ similar, are we?

I fucked my career up. I’m here to drag it out of the mud, kicking and screaming. Thomas Arteau, don’t make my mistakes.

(I’m _not_ here. I’m not standing on Court One with cameras tracking my every move.)

(I’m at home, I’m in bed, I’m someone else entirely.)

The thought centres me. Bed, home. It’ll be over soon.

(Do I still know how to do this? What is it, to serve a ball?)

I disappear into my head for a bit, and don’t realise I’ve been scrunching my eyes shut until they spring open, and I’m staring at my racket. I move mechanically, repeated movements I’ve done a thousand times before: two balls in my left pocket, bounce a third ball five times on the ground, touch the ball to strings and _throw._

I let the machine in me take over. A tennis automaton who knows more than he realises. Who remembers, who still knows how to _do_ this. (Whatever this is.) (It’s fucking tennis, you dolt.)

No one in the stands says a word, and it’s as if no one’s even daring to breathe as my racket moves over my shoulder to make first contact with the ball.

I hit my serve into the net, but that’s alright. You get a second one. Another chance to get things moving, to put the ball in play. When I was a kid my trainers told me that it was alright if I fuck up the first time, but I can’t afford to dwell. I’ve got to bounce the ball again, swing my arm again, bend my knees again, and _try._

Tennis is a game of second chances. I take one now, like I took one when I accepted the wildcard. I glance up at Penny; she clenches her fist.

My second serve flies free of the net, and then the point is in play.

Hit it back, hit it again, hit it harder. I win the first point. _Fifteen-love._

Arteau wins the next one with a powerhouse forehand. _Fifteen-all._

I win the third point with an excellent serve. _Thirty-fifteen._ Again, again. _Forty-fifteen._

“Game, Snow!” the umpire calls. It’s a beautiful sound. The scoreboard ticks over: SNOW 1 - 0 ARTEAU. It’s not as complicated as it looks: first player to reach six games, by a difference of at least two, wins the set. Slams are played over five sets, so I need to win three out of five to take the match.

_Can I do this? When’s the last time I played five decent sets of tennis?_

Something inside me clicks into place.

_I can do this. I can still do this._

_I remember._

* * *

S. SNOW **5-2** T. ARTEAU

* * *

**🎾 GFB Live Commentary: Simon Snow (WC) vs Thomas Arteau 🎾**

**Gareth:** _“Snow, with his brand new goat farm sponsor and worryingly transparent shorts, has been really impressive today, Geoff — about as far from his old self as he could possibly be without showing up on court in a black wig and calling himself Baz Pitch. Snow hits a sublime two-handed backhand behind his opponent to snatch another break. He leads the first set 5 games to 2.”_

 **Geoff:** _“You’re not wrong, Gaz The crowd are, dare I say it, getting into this first round match! It’s too early to call it, but this battle of the Badly Named Tennis Players_ — _Snow, tomatoes? Really?_ — _looks like it might already be leaning in Snow’s favour.”_

 **Gareth:** _“Poetic as always, Geoff. I could be getting ahead of myself here, but when was the last time we had two Brits in the second round? Agatha Wellbelove is a solid shout for women’s tennis, and there’s been some success for doubles teams in recent years, but the men’s tournament? Cobwebs and sawdust, mate. Perhaps today we’re seeing early signs that the tide might finally be turning. Penny for your thoughts, Basilton Pitch…”_

 **Geoff:** _“Get off it, Gareth_ — _Pitch’d never sell his thoughts for so little! Got to get that merchandising cut. Snow steps up to the line to serve, and hits a blinder of an ace. Arteau’s got no chance of returning that! 129mph, what a banger. He’s poised to take this first set, putting him in a great position for the rest of the match.”_

**SIMON**

I can’t believe I’m doing it.

I can’t afford to think.

Slide, swing. Hit, run.

Stretch, slice. The smack, the thrum.

The crowd’s humming. My arm, burning.

My legs are moving.

The wheels keep turning.

* * *

S. SNOW **6-2 6-3 1-0** T. ARTEAU

* * *

**🎾 GFB Live Commentary: Simon Snow (WC) vs Thomas Arteau 🎾**

**Geoff:** _“_ _Easy points for Snow at the beginning of this third set. The man is hardly in the shape of his life_ — _he has always loved his Wotsits, Gaz_ — _but he’s working hard out there today. He’s two sets up with a break in hand, and if he can hold on here, which...yes! He’s got it! Another ace! Simon Snow is just four games away from the second round of a major tournament. 2-0, Gaz! Can you believe it? It sounds mad, hearing it out loud, but this could be his best result in over three years.”_

 **Gareth:** _“It does sound mad, Geoff, you’re right. But it appears to be a reality! Folks listening at home, are you as pleasantly surprised as we are? Simon Snow is on course to reach the second round of a major for the first time in years. He does a quick sprint into the net to catch Arteau’s weak volley_ — _which even a year ago, the idea of Snow voluntarily sprinting was in itself a far-fetched prospect_ — _and pulls out a cheeky one-handed backhand. Step to the left, reach back and — he’s done it! Two breaks, and surely he’s cruising now! For a minute there in the second set it looked like Arteau would come back, and maybe take the set to 6-6. Snow is notoriously wobbly at tie-breaks, but he really hasn’t been pushed today.”_

**BAZ**

I stand in the middle of the players’ lounge, staring up at a screen bolted to the wall.

The object of my attention (and reluctant affection) is Snow. Always, always Simon Snow, disrupting my day and ruining my concentration.

“He’s winning,” Fiona mutters, as disbelieving as I’ve ever heard her. “Well fuck a duck, Basilton — who saw that one coming? Not a single racket smashed, either. That bloke who runs _howmanyracketsdidsimonsnowsmashtoday.com_ will be disappointed.”

 _I saw it coming,_ I think.

_I knew he could do it, if only he tried._

“What now?” she asks, tapping her foot impatiently. She’s waiting for me to stop staring as he slides across the grass, red-faced and determined. “We can get you back to the hotel and into the sauna.”

“No,” I say, peering around. There are others filtering in and out of the room — players and their coaches. They look at me, then the screen, and say nothing. Two hours ago, all I wanted in this life was to lie down — but if I shut myself in my hotel room now, I won’t find a sliver of rest or respite. I’ll be thinking about Snow, and his match, and the score. “Isn’t there a gym here? Somewhere in the depths.”

_Damn him. Damn him thoroughly and completely. Damn him all the way back to Lancaster._

Fiona signals to my father. (He’s been on the phone with Nike since the press conference ended, trying to contact someone named Phil. They’ve had him on hold for twenty minutes and his cheeks are turning purple with insult.) “Alright boyo, but we’re not staying all night — one quick blast on the exercise bike and you’re done.”

I don’t reply. I think about the repetition of movement, of staring at a wall instead of the screen. Yes, that would be best. The unrelenting boredom of physical training.

My eyes creep up once more.

_He’s winning. He’s going to win. He’s metres away from me, on the far side of that wall._

I bite my lip, follow my team through an open doorway and down a long, winding corridor.

Through a different doorway I hear shouts and jeers from Court One — one of the players is questioning a line call. Someone in the crowd shouts his name. _His_ name.

I stare at the floor. I quicken the pace.

* * *

S. SNOW **6-2 6-3 5-0** T. ARTEAU

* * *

  
  


**🎾 GFB Live Commentary: Simon Snow (WC) vs Thomas Arteau 🎾**

**Geoff:** _“Gaz, I hate to call a match before it’s over, because tennis is an unpredictable game —”_

 **Gareth:** _“— me too, mate, me too —”_

 **Geoff:** _“— but Simon Snow is serving to take this third set to love, and I think he’s bloody well going to do it. Pardon my French.”_

 **Gareth:** _“Totally understandable use of a minor expletive, Geoffrey. This has taken all of us at GFB by the balls today — Snow is not only winning, but he’s also playing well. Out of his freckly skin! He’s going to feel good when it’s over — which might be any second now, as he serves again at 40-0. Three match points, and —”_

 **Geoff:** _“— he serves an ace down the middle, 128mph! The umpire calls game, set, match, and Snow jumps for joy. He’s only bloody gone and done it! Oh, shit. I mean —”_

 **Gaz:** _“That’s alright, Geoff, take it easy. There’s a big thumbs-up for Snow’s team in the player’s box as he shakes Arteau’s hand, then does the same with the umpire. His long-time coach Penny Bunce will be thrilled with this unexpected turn of events. That is a solid straight-set victory for the 27-year-old from Lancaster, who records his first top-level win in months, and is welcomed back by the Watford crowd with open arms...it’s like he never left, Geoff!_

_Were these last few years all a horrible dream?”_

* * *

S. SNOW **6-2 6-3 6-0** T. ARTEAU  
GAME, SET, MATCH, SNOW!

* * *

**SIMON**

_It’s like he never went away._

That’s what I hear someone say as I tidy my gear and chuck my banana peel in the bin. (Not one smashed today — rackets _or_ bananas. Someone’s losing a piss-pile of money on a betting site right now.)

I think it’s a good thing. I think they’re saying I’m back. That they’re _glad_ I’m back.

Fucking hell. I think I just won a tennis match.

I’m buzzing, floating _—_ it’s like I’m _flying._

I won. I actually fucking _won_. It’s just the first round; I know that. No need to get carried away. It’s not like I’ve got it in me to win the whole bleeding tournament, but I don’t care because I _won_ today _. This. match._

My first proper victory in months. I played a few amateur tournaments earlier in the year...Brighton Beach Challenger, another in Rhyl. But at _this_ level? Nothing. I wasn’t ready. I’d stopped believing in myself. On the day the Watford Open organisers called me about the wildcard, my first thought was: _pull the fucking other one, you’re having a laugh._

They said I could attend _in the nation’s interest_. Paris gives most of their wildcards to French players, and Melbourne does the same for Aussies. That’s how it goes; they want people to get invested and watch. I wanted to tell the Lawn Club to fuck off and give it to someone who deserved it, regardless of nationality _—_ maybe one of these kids growing up on the clay courts in Spain, working their arses off. The next big thing.

Penny told me to be quiet and said _yes, of course, Simon would love to accept._

I started getting into the match today. I _enjoyed_ it. (Don’t tell anyone). Swinging my arm, hitting freely...the crush of grass under my feet, the slide and thwack of my racket.

I remembered why I wanted to do this. Why at school I did fuck all in maths and science, and picked tennis over everything else. (I mean, I was shit at everything else, but still.)

And it’s exhilarating, I won’t lie. I want to get back out there and play again, even though that’d be bad news for my knees. I want to replay that match, stroke for stroke, exactly as it was.

Not going to look too badly in the sports pages tomorrow, is it? _Simon Snow wins first round match: def. Tom Arteau in straight sets._ Not even Baz bloody Pitch could ask for a better result. (Well, he’s _had_ better results. He went on a mad run last year — he beat three of the NowNext Gen players in a row, 6-1 6-0. Ripped their fucking heads off.)

No. Not even Baz could say I played badly today. (I wonder if he’s still here. He can’t possibly still be yacking it up in the press room. Though he _does_ love to talk about himself…)

I stretch my arms over my head, grinning as I run into Penny in the players’ area, pulling her into a hug. She’s trying not to smile as she reminds me about post-match press duties _—_ in twenty minutes or so, I’ll have to talk to them. There’ll be new faces after my years away _—_ I hope they’re friendly. (After I smashed my racket in my first round match four years ago, they got arsey with me. But the only thing I smashed today was the scoreline.)

I’m feeling surprisingly good. I’m not thinking about Baz or losing ( _I didn’t lose!_ ), or the fact that my ranking’s outside of the top 100 for the first time since I was eighteen.

It’s all good. This’ll help. I’m not the disappointment who drops out in the first round anymore.

I’m a winner. At least for today. Fucking _get in!_

“Simon, let’s wait in the locker room. After press is done, we’ll take a tournament car back to the hotel _—_ you can have a nice long bath and we’ll get you something healthy for dinner.”

“Sod that, Pen _—_ I _won._ Massive bag of salty haddock or nothing, mate.”

“Have you ever even _tried_ haddock?”

“Don’t care. I’d walk right into Pets At Home and make quick work of a sack of dog biscuits, the way I’m feeling.”

She gags and confers with an organiser who’s been staring at me since we walked in. Like I, in all my sweaty glory, might be something worth bothering with.

Agatha appears from nowhere and breezes past, touching my shoulder. She’s not wearing her match whites. She scowls down at her hand, now clammy with sweat.

“Disgusting. You need to shower. Well played today, by the way.” She hesitates, as if she pays a great toll in being arguably nice for six consecutive words. “You’ll need to prepare better for the next round. Cole Winters beat Perry Clam today — he’s no pushover.”

I groan. “Can’t I enjoy the fact that I won for _five seconds_ , without thinking about the next match?”

She purses her lips. “No. Absolutely not.”

Agatha’s a tactical player. She’s got a famous coach, and she trains in Florida during our miserable British winters _—_ we don’t see each other much because of how hectic the tour is, but when she _does_ see me she’s always giving me tips. As if I didn’t naturally stop improving years ago.

“You’ll have to run after his balls,” she says, inspecting her fingernails. Her hair’s down on her bare shoulders; gold against gold. She’ll tie it up to play. Her brown eyes flick up to find mine. “Each and every one.”

“You what?” I ask, instantly disliking where my mind goes.

“His balls, Simon. Winters hits hard and heavy — he’ll have you knocked from side to side like...well, I shan’t waste my breath on analogy. Imagine something that moves from side to side.”

I do. “A...tennis ball?”

She rolls her eyes.

“I already run after balls, Ags. It’s tennis.”

“You don’t so much run as lollop,” she sighs, pretending to look annoyed. (I can tell she’s delighted, really. Underneath it all.) (Deep, _deep_ down.) A tall bloke appears beside her — it’s the one who was sitting next to Penny in the player’s box. I like his glasses. “Instead of waiting for the ball to come to you, you need to _move_ to it. There’s this novelty concept called _anticipation_ _._ Winters won’t be nervously standing on the baseline like Arteau was, hitting predictable shots.”

I feel like I should be paying her. Maybe if Agatha’s own career weren’t miles better than my own, she’d be up for it _—_ I’d send her a tenner over Paypal, and she’d send me a spreadsheet of Baz Pitch’s strengths and weaknesses. (Or Cole Winters’s, I guess.) (I already have a spreadsheet about Baz.) But also, she’s got her own shit going on, so. Probably not.

“Haven’t you got a match today?” I ask, rubbing my neck. “Worry about that.”

“No,” she says curtly, running her hands through her hair. “I’ve got a bye into the second round — top ten ranking, remember? Regardless, I’m far more concerned about _you._ ” That stings, in a sweet way. That’s what being Agatha’s friend is like; she sees me as a project. A naff lollipop-stick-and-loo-roll model of Thunderbird Island she’s never going to finish. “Jolly good show, winning the match. Really. You were great.”

She air-kisses my cheek _—_ fuck me, I _am_ a sweaty mess _—_ and then she’s gone in a swish of blonde and shining future prospects, dragging her mysterious friend along with her. I’m left looking at Penny, nervously biting my lip.

“Half of the cameras will have been focused on her, instead of me,” I say, adjusting my shorts. “Maybe nobody at home will have noticed my balls flopping about in these pants. They don’t fit right and I’m pretty sure they’re not mine.”

Penny grimaces. “That reminds me: we’re stopping off at H&M on the drive back to the hotel and investing in a few multipacks. _Honestly,_ Simon.”

I shrug, too tired to be embarrassed. “Who’s that bloke she’s with? Is she playing doubles as well? Or is he her _—_ ”

“Hush,” Penny snips, turning pink. (Not as pink as her hair, mind.) (She dyes her hair all sorts of colours. This tournament it’s purpley-pink all over.) “Focus on the immediate future.”

“Don’t want to.”

It’s just me and the ball, my head trapped in the match again.

Penny crosses her arms and waits for me to attach a fiddly little microphone to my sweat-soaked shirt. The top players get a good hour between match and press conference, so they can shower and look presentable, but us lower-ranked nobodies have to show up when we’re told to. Penny asks if I can’t do _something_ about my hair, and I don’t know what she expects.

“This is who I am!” I cry, as she attempts to tame it. “I’ve just spent two hours on court. If I look nice, they’ll be suspicious.”

She sighs, adjusting her glasses. “If you say so.”

Penny doesn’t always understand how finicky tennis can be. She was never a player _—_ only an agent, then my manager when no one else wanted to do it. When I get stuck in my weird rituals and behaviours, she does her best to retrieve me at the end. Penny does the salvaging and I do the hitting.

“Let’s face it, I look as good as it’s going to get. I was no Feliciano Lopez to begin with.”

She admits defeat. “Fine. Are you ready? God knows what they’ll ask. I submitted a list of questions, but Green Fuzzy Balls are in there, and we both know they can’t follow a script. Gareth de Gates has got cotton wool for brains and rusty nails for morals.”

This morning I would’ve said: _No_. _I can’t do this, let me hide beneath the duvet a while longer._

But right now, I’m alright. I’m winning( _!!!!!!!!!!!! :D :D: :D,_ so goes the tweet I am mentally composing for when I’m lying in bed tonight, fucking about on my phone).

I squeeze Penny’s hand and tell her I’m ready.

  
  


**🎾 GFB Evening Recap: Day 2 of the Watford Open 🎾  
**

**Gareth:** _“...infinitely quotable, isn’t he? Simon Snow, wordsmith extraordinaire. Can’t take that away from him. It’s good to see him again, Geoff, answering GFB’s questions with his usual lack of tact and abundance of transparency. And I’m not talking about his shorts! The Chronicle asked him what he was thinking about as he served for match point, and with a toss of his curls, Snow replied wistfully, “salty haddock”...”_

 **Geoff:** _“It was refreshing to hear him talk about his old rival in that way, Gaz. That was my main takeaway. Hang about, do you fancy a takeaway after this? Curry, I’m thinking. Anyway, most top athletes become guarded and get fixated on what they should be saying, instead of what they’re feeling. Love him or hate him, Snow’s never been like that. He just said on live television that world number nine, Basilton Pitch, looks like a haunted house extra who tripped and fell into the wrong career…”_

 **Gareth:** _“Snow offends all five senses at once and we bloody love him for it, Geoff. He might not be here to win the whole thing, but Simon Snow has made it clear today that he’s at the Watford Open to give it his best shot. It’ll take a few more matches to hit the pace we were seeing five or six seasons ago, but with a scoreline like today’s, there are signs that it’s still in there._

 _Here’s tomorrow’s headline, dear journalists:_ **_There are signs of life in Simon Snow_** _.”_


	4. How to increase the tension

**BAZ**

_WOULD YOU LIKE TO INCREASE THE TENSION?_

_Yes. Yes I would._

I push flashing buttons on the stationary bike until the level of resistance is punishing, and force myself to pedal through the pain. I’ll be grateful for the burn later, when I’m too tired to lie awake worrying in bed, and can instead sleep off this day with ease. A temporary death by exercise. My knee stings, but there isn’t space in my head to worry about it; I keep pedalling until the new pain blends with the rest.

It’s late. Far too late to still be on tournament grounds, abusing the free players’ gym. It’s past seven and the last of Day 2’s evening matches are ending _—_ there are a couple of Americans on one of the outside courts still going at it, but otherwise play has concluded. My dealings with the press concluded hours ago, and I could by now be freshly bathed and post-massage, eating a light meal high on protein and low on flavour in my lovely, modern, bland hotel room. Instead I’m here, chasing answers I won’t find in such statistics as this bike can offer.

Green Fuzzy Balls (Pat Cash’s earring, could they have chosen a worse name?) ended their live coverage an hour ago. If there’s another player left in the complex, I’d be surprised. Even the top-ranked stars and their cohorts left long ago, to prepare for the second round: Lamb was amongst them, waving to everyone he passed as if he were Tom Cruise at yet another Mission Impossible premiere. Although in his case, it’s more _Mission Impassable._

I should be gone too. My father is standing in the doorway watching me race myself, arms folded, holding back his thoughts. He’s tried to tempt me away twice with the promise of steak and a game of chess (two of my fondest weaknesses), but I can’t stop. Not yet. This is me, taking things too far.

Taking things personally.

“When do you think you’ll be done for the evening, Basil?” Fiona calls in a sarcastic, sing-song voice. She appears with a fresh towel and a bottle of cold water, which I’d very much like to drown myself in. She ensures it remains out of reach. “The restaurant at the hotel closes at nine. Don’t want to miss the sirloin, do we?”

My aunt’s growing impatient and rightfully concerned _—_ she knows I’d likely pedal myself to ruin without a moderating presence. She pinches my father’s arm and lectures him via intense hand gestures.

“Basilton,” I hear him say, as weary as I feel. “You may peruse your mobile telephonic device for an hour tonight, if you cease this infernal pedalling.”

My feet still, breaths coming in jagged tears. _Do_ I want to scroll to the ends of the earth on my phone? I know exactly what I’ll be looking for. Images and commentary on Snow’s miraculous victory.

He _won._ I think part of me feared me wouldn’t. He produced a bloody decent scoreline, too.

Then afterwards, in his press conference, he roasted me alive. (That’s nothing new. In order to deflect from criticism of his sparkling self, he has often resorted to sullying my good name. It keeps his own in print.)

Snow, glistening with sweat. His golden skin, red with effort.

Snow swinging his arm, legs at a stretch, every muscle straining against unsuitable fabric...

Oh dear.

I begin to pedal again, increasing the resistance.

“I don’t want my phone.”

That’s not true. It’s a comfort when I need a distraction. It might sound childish having my team confiscate it, but it’s for the best. I ask Fiona to do it. I cannot be trusted not to end up down a rabbit hole of Snow-related tennis memes, when left to my own devices. (Ha! Devices!)

No, it’s best if my aunt keeps me well away from the internet. I’ve a match to think about, a tournament to progress in.

“Nearly there,” I say, looking at the miles I’ve cycled to nowhere. “Five more minutes.”

Fiona’s in the doorway speaking to a tournament official; they want us out so they can tidy up the gym. Empty the bins, shut down the machinery. If I ask nicely will they shut me down, too?

“If you’re too tired for your match tomorrow, _I’ll_ be the one editing your Wikipedia page to call you a numpty.” She opens the water and tips it down her throat. I hate her intensely, and then I don’t.

She moves to lean against the handlebars of the bike, glaring up at me. I notice the pouchy bags under her eyes. She’s tired, too. I look over at my father _—_ yes, there’s no question that he’s slouching. He’s even loosened his tie and unfastened the top button of his shirt. How unbecoming.

I sigh, ending the bike’s murderous workout session and letting my legs come to a gradual halt. I reach up to retie my sweat-soaked hair in a knot, loose and low against my neck.

“Very well. I’m done and wholly abhorrent. Are you happy?”

She smirks and tosses me the half-empty bottle. “Always.”

I see the gap where one of her canines used to be, before she got into a punch-up with a doubles player. That was several years ago now. (He’d called me a glorified badminton novice; she insisted had no choice but to defend my honour with her face.)

I try to hide how boneless I feel as I wobble my way across the deserted gym. I fantasise about a quick round of lurid Instagram scrolling, once I’m tucked up in bed tonight _—_ Snow’s account will be my first port of call, of course, though he rarely updates. When he does, it’s undoubtedly food-related. There must be someone else running his account this week; actual tennis content naturally makes me suspicious.

Fiona gathers my things and hands them off to my father, throwing a jacket at me.

“Let’s get some rest. You know, before her matches, your mum would do this whole ritual. Shower, yoga, dinner, stretching, and before bed she’d always...”

I tune out from her wistful trip down memory lane, staring at my feet as they drag me along in her wake.

“The car’s waiting by the players’ entrance. I’m afraid it’s _—_ ” my father begins, before his phone bursts into life for the hundredth time today. “Oh, it’s Nike. _Finally._ I expect they’ll want to know if the new headbands arrived.”

I hum, though I couldn’t care less. I count footsteps in time to my own calming heartbeat.

My mother. I know very well what her pre-match rituals were _—_ how could I forget? They’ve been an essential element of my bedtime story repertoire since before I was verbal. Everything I’ve achieved, every leap and bound taken in my career, has been held up in comparison to hers. She’s the shadow behind my shadow, watching me closely.

I didn’t really know my mother, but she knows me very well.

“I’ll go straight to bed as soon I’ve showered,” I assure my aunt, staring down at her phone in lieu of my own as we round a corner. There’s an exit ahead _—_ we can escape into the faltering daylight briefly, sucking lungfuls of London air before climbing into the back of a tournament-stickered car, and journeying the short distance to the hotel. That’s my life for the foreseeable future _—_ cars, corridors, cameras.

I’d like to say that after the tournament ends, things will return to normal. But there’ll be weeks of media interest until the vultures find another carcass to descend upon. Perhaps Snow will get up to his usual ridiculous antics and do me a mercy. _In the name of Bjorn Borg our saviour, let him throw something obscenely expensive out of a window._

I’m still thinking about Snow as I swing around another corner in pursuit of my champion speed-walker aunt (or so she seems to think), my father treading on her heels as he discusses Very Important Business Things with an account manager named Stuart. They both swerve to the left to avoid a collision with someone marching the other way, head down and oblivious _—_ and because I’m not paying the blindest bit of notice, it’s me they collide with. My nose bangs against a particularly hard stretch of skull, and I’m assailed by curls so encrusted with hair gel they might as well be made of vinyl. My teeth clack together violently, and then I’m tumbling backwards, sprawled inelegantly in the corridor.

_Down and out. It’s not the first time and won’t be the last._

“Basil!” I hear my father shout, covering his phone with one hand. “Careful with that knee!”

He doesn’t stop to help me up. He raises his voice at Stuart, who is about to be given a lesson in negotiating he’ll not soon forget. I wait for my aunt to retrieve me, but she doesn’t appear, either — she’s found a tournament official to accost, demanding to know why the corridor lighting is so bloody terrible.

I groan, scraping myself up. “I hardly think my knee’s the key concern. Nor the lighting.”

I hear Fiona shriek with unkind laughter, though it quickly dissolves into general shrieking as reality makes itself apparent. As we both recognise the man who has so pummelled me.

“Oi! The fuck is your _..._ ”

He trails off as he always does, as though allergic to complete sentences. As he used to do often, in the halcyon days of our fragile friendship. Anyone would think him incapable of finishing a thought.

Simon Snow towers over me, every inch of him the rage and indignation he’s been infested with since birth.

He’s furious. A landscape of dry sweat and exhaustion, with his white shorts and grazed knees.

He’s beautiful.

“Basil, the car’s arriving in ten minutes,” Fiona says coldly. This is the moment we’ve been avoiding, the glitch in time I know they’ve planned for — _the unfortunate reunion._ My father, utterly oblivious to the descending chaos, disappears through a door whilst she marches towards me, elbowing her way between myself and Snow. (It’s a wise move; I’m already showing the tell-tale signs of bewildered desperation.) “We need to get our arses moving, else it’s vending machine crisps for dinner.”

She sounds as if she’s far away, as if he and I are in another world entirely. _Population: two mildly disappointing tennis players._

I steal another look. He visibly needs a shower.

I don’t know that I’ll ever want to look at anything else.

It’s funny. I thought I’d be afraid, when we met again. _If_ we met.

_For you, I feel only what I’ll never say._

“You,” he says, leaning heavily into the wall. (Why is he _here?_ Where is his chaperone?) “Baz. You’re…”

“Easy does it, Snow,” I gasp, dragging myself into an upright position and deliberately ignoring his outstretched hand. _If we touch, I’m ruined._

He screws up his nose, halfway to a glorious sulk.

 _That’s how he’ll look,_ I think bleakly, _standing over my corpse one day._

“Calm down,” I say, though it’s me who’s anything _but_ calm. “I’m not the bloody queen.”

It’s as if we haven’t spent years apart, stewing on opposite sides of the globe. His face transforms ( _like a Transformer_ ) into his habitual blend of anger and confusion. It’s as familiar as it is worryingly attractive.

_This. This is why he can’t be near me. I’ll forget my own name if he keeps looking at me like that. Convince myself I’m a golf player and become terribly invested in holes._

I wonder when the exact moment came, wherein I realised I had developed complicated and inconvenient feelings for my rival. Was it when we were still amateurs on tour, muddling our way through matches together, or did it come much later?

Was it the moment we first met at the academy, when he picked up his racket by the wrong end and tried to use it as a snooker cue?

There might have been a million small moments in which I fell in love with Simon Snow.

And it took only one moment to undo it all.

“Why are you here?” he asks, brow furrowed. He steps closer to me; he’s always doing that. Standing too close, filling my head with an overpowering miasma of Lynx Africa and whatever he last ate. “Isn’t this the way out of the grounds? You don’t play until tomorrow, and it’s bleeding late.”

“An astute observation,” I reply dryly, knocking dust from my jacket. “There’s this novel concept professional athletes partake in called _training_. Tell me, have you ever willingly stepped foot inside a gym?”

It’s a cruel question. _My only defence: say awful things until he works himself up into a strop and storms off._

He answers it. “Only that one time you made me. Do you remember? We were in —”

_Barcelona, yes, I know. I think about it often. My dreams for weeks afterwards involved a worrying number of hip rotations._

“That’s quite enough reminiscing,” I snap. My hands are shaking; I hide them.

_Why isn’t he furious at me? Where’s the years’ old anger he’s surely been keeping to one side, in anticipation of this moment?_

Snow looks as though he might say something more, then shrugs. He’s crumpled and creased, a shirt betrayed by its coat hanger. Where’s his team, such as it is? I know Bunce continues to trail him around like a last bastion of hope _—_ and where’s his precious Wellbelove, who I hear was in attendance at his match? This is not a man who should be given over to his whims for any length of time. He’s inherently attracted to disaster.

_As am I._

“I won today,” he says, as surprised by the words as anyone else on this earth.

“Congratulations,” I say hollowly, my voice a sorry scratch. Fiona’s behind me, a heavy hand on my shoulder. Snow performs the Sacred Tennis Nod and she returns it, because she’s morally obligated. (She’s nothing if not aggressively polite.) “That must have come as a terrible shock.”

Snow rubs his neck, cheeks flaming red, and moves to push past me. My aunt lingers _—_ saying nothing, watching us closely. It’s a wonder one of the Open’s innumerable photographers hasn’t come blundering around the corner to catch us here, two once great rivals trapped in social awkwardness. Someone else who’s lost in the labyrinth of corridors, camera held aloft like a flare.

“Cheers. Same to you. I mean _—_ _not_ the same, not yet, but...good luck. For tomorrow.”

I raise an eyebrow. It’s unkind, but I can hardly contain the burst of life I suffer, hearing those words.

_Good luck for tomorrow._

Not only does it indicate that Snow has a basic grasp of scheduling, but it also suggests he _cares_. (It’s far more likely than him having grasped the art of undetectable sarcasm.)

_Simon Snow cares about my match tomorrow._

_Simon wants me to win._

“Cheers,” Fiona says on my behalf, as it’s apparent I can no longer speak for myself. I can only flap my jaw hopelessly like a wounded guppy. “Basilton appreciates the support. Now, bugger off back to the Lancaster chip shop fryer you crawled out of _—_ we’re running late.”

I feel no urge at all to cycle through the apps on my phone as distraction. This, _this_ has ever been enough _—_ him. His ordinary blue eyes. The moles on his cheeks, like discount stars.

I’m standing here, bruised and battered, in a dimly lit corridor with my arch-nemesis whom I jilted three long years ago. We’re exchanging stilted pleasantries, and I’m finding it’s _not_ as awful as I’d imagined. (And I’ve imagined it a lot.)

“Baz!” Fiona calls from the far side of nowhere. “There’s a lovely little Punto out there with your name on it. I’ll get yer dad to come and drag you out, if I have to.”

She means it about the car. (And the dragging.) The tournament vehicles _do_ have my name on them. Decals of my face, too _—_ they’ve decorated cars with all of the top ten players. It’s beyond mortifying. Was a nice fleet of Mercedes too much to ask for?

“Thank you,” I breathe, and then I remember to actually _breathe._ “Good luck with your preparations for the second round.”

“Yeah,” Snow grunts, still staring at me. It’s as if we’ve forgotten how to blink. We’re both ignoring my aunt’s awkward, malevolent presence. “Massive bag of fish and chips.”

“Excuse me?” I ask. Though truthfully, he has _always_ threatened to tangent into takeaway territory at a moment’s notice. “I’d suggest a vegetable, if you’re familiar with any.”

He attempts to look offended, but then we’re aware of another figure, bellowing from the far end of the corridor. This new arrival crosses paths with Fiona, who must say something suitably scathing _—_ and so we stand trapped, two players from warring teams, only able to look at the other man.

I think about the message that flashed up on the bike’s screen as I pedalled to nowhere.

_WOULD YOU LIKE TO INCREASE THE TENSION?_

(I don’t think that’s possible right now.)

“Simon Snow, there you are!” comes a shrill voice from the past. _Bunce. Penelope Bunce, Snow’s incorrigible life coach._

“Sorry, Pen. Got lost looking for the loo.”

She pouts. She looks exactly the same as she did at the academy, though her hair’s a new shade of lurid _—_ here she comes, trailing Snow around like the common cold. “The press might have finished with you, but I’m not! How on _earth_ do you get lost at the Watford Open? There are very clear signs! Everywhere!”

He shrugs. It’s the universal Snowsian response for _I dunno, do not ask me, for I am merely an infuriatingly handsome tennis player._

Bunce stops short when she notices me. Her eyes flick rapidly between my face and Snow’s, then settle somewhere between us, brow furrowed as though suffering an intense thought.

“Basilton,” she says eventually. I wait, but nothing follows.

“Bunce,” I reply. It’s unfortunate how my voice cracks; emotion rises with it and I turn to face the wall, biting my lip. _Pull it together, Pitch._

She tuts and pretends not to notice my discomfort. Nothing about Bunce has ever changed, or ever will. “Simon, come and sort out your things and help me remember the hotel address. I need to give it to the taxi driver.”

Press commitments. That’s why he’s here this late. Not content with making fun of me in his post-match interview, he’s sticking around until well after hours to provide more scintillating quotes for his adoring audience. I should have known.

I straighten my back. I avert my gaze. I raise a hand to let Fiona know I’ve not lost all of my senses. Not yet. (Though it’s a close thing.)

“Very well. Best wishes, Snow.” Why do I sound like a greetings card? I look at my feet and give him the nod. 

“Alright then,” Snow mutters, returning it and turning away. “Many happy returns.”

I feel a blush burning my cheeks.

_ **TENSION** ? _

_THE_

_INCREASE_

_TO_

_LIKE_

_YOU_

_WOULD_

Fiona smirks at me all the way along the corridor. She doesn’t let her face relax until we find the literal light at the end of the tunnel _—_ a way out of this terrible place.

“Ask and the fates will provide a collision, boyo.”

I ignore her. It’s generally for the best.

“That was reasonably well handled,” she continues sarcastically. Father’s blocking another doorway up ahead. Violins and cellos drift out from his phone; he’s on hold again. At this rate he'll have Tchaikovsky's entire bloody back catalogue memorised. 

"Hm," I non-say.

“You _didn’t_ drop to your knees and propose to him on the spot. Can’t ask for more, really.”

I try to mentally calculate how far I’d realistically have to run, to ever be rid of her.

_Snow didn’t confront me. He didn’t ask why I’ve ignored him for three years. Blanked him like a rotten Tinder date._

_Instead, he wished me luck._

Outside of the Watford grounds, I’m patted on the back by a man I don’t know _—_ good grief, is that Rhys Racquet, Chief-Door Opener? _—_ and ushered towards a car emblazoned with my own gurning face. I’m shoved unceremoniously into the back seat by a woman I _do_ know, and whom I’m sure is perfectly cognisant of all that’s rushing through my mind at present. She piles in next to me whilst my father takes the passenger seat.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, boyo.”

“It’s not _in_ the gutter,” I grumble. 

“But it’s not in the game either, is it?”

I scowl.

_Snow. He looked good. Jubilant, even. Unexpected victory suits him._

Inside the car with the door shut, the nerves come tumbling back. There’s a crash of reality _—_ and almost an actual crash, as a clueless cyclist swerves in front us _—_ as we rejoin the clogged roads of central London. A ten-minute drive to the hotel threatens to become a thirty-minute forced conversation with my aunt. I might not survive.

“Well? Are we going to talk about your gooey-eyed performance back there?”

I stare out of the window instead of explaining myself, itching to reach for my phone.

Part of me wishes I’d had to play the first round alongside Snow. I would have got the agony of that initial walk onto court over with. I’m secretly jealous that he didn’t have to face the scrutiny of Centre Court, where I’ll be debuting tomorrow _—_ there’s less pressure on the smaller stages. Fewer people in the stands, fewer eyes to watch you fall.

I’m vulnerable in these early rounds; everyone knows it. The worry eats me alive. Especially at a major event, where expectations are higher. I feel like I might throw up, and it must be plain enough on my face _—_ Fiona reaches into the seat pocket in front of her, and produces a paper bag adorned with the Watford Open logo. _Lovely. They even merchandised the sick bags._

Another internal crisis ensues. _I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be here. I can’t bear to look at him, to be_ looked at _by him._

Perhaps my knee will explode ten minutes into the first set tomorrow, and I can retire. Swan off to assume my destiny as a professional layabout, somewhere in the sunny environs of the Mediterranean.

But then I remember I'm sitting in a car that's decorated with my own face, and I know I can’t give up. Not yet. Not without trying.

If Simon Snow can bludgeon his way through a match, I bloody well can too.

“Nearly there, lad,” my aunt says, so far away. “Steak for you, Malcolm?”

“Salmon,” he replies, tutting at his phone and ending the call. His ear is red. “Watching Snow’s curious press conference has put me in the mood for fish.”

I feel as though I’m on a boat, tossed about by rough waves. Fiona watches me carefully, then asks the driver to turn on the radio.

“We’ll see what the previews for tomorrow’s matches are saying. Those Green Fuzzy idiots should have some news by now.”

A grating voice fills the small car. Thank goodness Gareth de Gates is merely an annual occurrence, and not a daily one.

_“Welcome to tonight’s preview for day three of the Watford Open! If you’re just joining us, we’ve seen some frankly astonishing results already, and we’ve got a jam-packed schedule of matches for you tomorrow. World number one, Charles Lamb, will be taking on a young upstart from the United States, Braden Bodmer. After that we’ve got a somewhat sexy stalwart of British tennis for you to cheer on in his first appearance this year — Basilton Pitch will be taking to Centre Court against another British hopeful, Freddie Wren. Will he be able to follow in the glorious footsteps of Simon Snow and bag his first win at this year’s tournament?”_

I lurch between the seats to turn off the radio. I see his face again, peering down at me in a dim corridor. _He managed to get lost despite the very clear signage. He’s hopeless. And I’m hopelessly —_

“Oi!” Fiona snaps, turning the radio back on. She lectures me about _surveillance_ and _tactics_ and _maintaining_ _a state of constant awareness_ because _it’s what they’d do to us, Basil_. “What’s got you all knotted up?”

“It’s not the knee, is it?”

“No, father, it’s not my bloody knee,” I say through gritted teeth.

How could I explain it to them? 

In the gym I tried to let go of the tension, the resistance, the emotional incline I’ve been on for days, but seeing Snow...colliding with him...I’m back on that bike, trying to climb a mountain.

“It’s nothing,” I murmur, rubbing my eyes. “I’m fine. Can we have dinner in the room? I don’t want to look at people.”

Father says that sounds like a splendid idea; afterwards, we can try on my new headbands.

By the time we arrive at the hotel, I’ve picked the skin from around my fingernails. I lose myself in contemplation of Snow and his massive bag of celebratory fish _—_ GFB’s commentary was _very_ excited that he’s upping his protein levels, albeit of the battered variety _—_ and drift like a discarded carrier bag through the foyer.

My aunt asks me a question but I don’t answer.

My father holds the lift doors open, and I step through silently.

As soon as I’m able, I’ll have my head under a steaming shower. I’ll be thinking of Snow as he looked today, flushed with victory and utterly lost. I’ll fall asleep thinking of blue and bronze and freckles and skin, and in the midst of it all, he’ll ask me a question.

He’ll say, _“Baz, would you like to increase the tension?”_

And because I’ve been lost on him for years I’ll say _yes, yes Simon. Let’s do that._

_Let’s increase the tension between us._


	5. Interview with a doubles team

* * *

**WEDNESDAY || Day 3 of the Watford Open**

* * *

**SIMON**

It isn’t Penny who wakes me on Wednesday. It’s Shepard.

“Good morning!” he says. Shouts, really. In my eye. (Yes, you read that right _—_ my _eye._ ) “Ready for breakfast? Of course you are! Who wouldn’t be?”

Every single thing that comes out of his mouth has a trail of ?!?!?!?!?!?! coming after it.

_Who is this Shepard?(!?!?!)_ I hear you cry. This time yesterday, I honestly couldn’t have told you. _The tall bloke sitting next to Penny at my match._ _Some other lad I was at the academy with, Dominic Shepherd, who got his kicks sniffing Tippex in the men’s bogs._

By ten o'clock last night, despite how valiantly I tried to fight it, I knew more about this man than I’ve ever wanted to know about another living soul.

Shepard. Shepard the Chatty Enigma, or more accurately, Shepard the Very Happy American. He’s from somewhere called Omaha, which he kept going on and on about until I eventually realised he was saying actual words, and not just making weird sneezing sounds. (It’s a city. Can’t remember which state. One with corn in it.)

Shepard from Omaha plays tennis _—_ doubles, mostly. More importantly, he really, really likes Werther’s Originals. (“They’re a taste revelation!”) He can and _will_ do the splits, at any given time, with no notice. His tennis heroes are Gael Monfils and Agatha Wellbelove, for very different reasons. He can call you “my dude” and make you feel like yes, indeed, you are _his dude._ He likes ice cream for dinner, even if he’s got to play a match tomorrow. He will take the denim jacket off his back for you and drape it over your shoulders, even if you beg him not to. He owns a lot of badges and sew-on patches. He speaks four languages and can make you laugh in every single one of them.

Shepard’s a firework. He’s a human pinball machine.

I fucking love him.

_“Why have I not met you before?”_ I asked, just before midnight and long after I should’ve gone to bed. Shepard was sitting on the floor of my hotel room with me, Penny and Agatha. They’d shown up uninvited with pizza in hand, just as Penny was talking me through my win. ( _“Can we come in?”_ Shepard asked Penny. She said no.) (They came in.)

_“You’re my age,”_ I said to him. _“You must’ve been on the tour for years.”_

I definitely would’ve remembered Shepard. He wears snappy clothes and keeps a pencil behind his ear. His glasses are massive and he’s got the sort of laugh that makes you laugh, because it’s just _that_ ridiculous. Where has he been all my life?

_“I was a late bloomer,”_ he explained, high-fiving me just because he could. _“In tennis terms, at least. I’m twenty-nine! I only picked up a racket a few years ago out of curiosity. And now here I am at Watford!”_

The pizza they brought was amazing. Plain margherita, my favourite _—_ apparently it’s from a takeaway right across the street. Shepard and Agatha took a taxi here together and ordered it on impulse when they hopped out. It’s hard to imagine Agatha Wellbelove, top three player and former world number one, doing _anything_ on impulse.

But there’s something different about Agatha this week. She’s shining.

Also, she dropped out of the women’s tournament yesterday, right after I won my match. Talk about a shocker.

“Breakfast,” I say blearily, as Shepard hauls me out of bed. I wouldn’t normally let anyone near me like this, but I’m wearing proper pyjamas, and it’s hard to say no to Shepard. It’d be like kicking a puppy. “Yeah, alright. Something jammy with bread on it.”

“Can do, my friend.”

I can’t wait to see what Shepard’s like on a tennis court. I bet he’s loads of fun to watch. He’s a doubles player, but his usual partner’s injured _—_ he was on Twitter last week looking for a last-minute teammate, though he didn’t get many responses. Only one.

Agatha. Agatha replied saying she wanted to enter the mixed doubles tournament, and would he like to team up with her? (One man, one woman, two rackets. Not each, though. Only one each.) Shepard agreed, and then next thing you know, they’re meeting up and getting along strangely well, considering how different they are. (If Shepard is big smiles and spontaneous pizza trips, Agatha is a carefully written work presentation about why pizza is bad for you, complete with a hundred painstaking footnotes she didn’t write herself because she doesn’t have the time.)

They came here last night to tell us the news. Agatha’s dropping out of the singles draw, and only playing mixed doubles. It’s the first time in five years she’ll have missed the main event of a slam. They’ll play their first match together on Friday.

“Blood hell, Ags,” I say, rubbing my forehead. We didn’t drink last night, but it feels like it. “Oh, sorry. You’re not Ags.”

Shepard grins at me, lowering me onto the sofa. “Still not Agatha, I’m afraid. I _am_ your alarm clock, though _—_ Penelope says you need to get ready for your interview. Bright eyes and bushy tails were mentioned.”

I groan, flopping back against the cushions. “So you trick me out of bed with the promise of breakfast, then throw _work_ at me? No thanks. Changed my mind.”

“About what?”

“All of it.”

“Come on, Simon. You’ve got this.”

It’s the sort of thing I do. Get ahead of myself and commit to something that Future Simon really, really doesn’t like. (For example, a live TV interview on one of the main sports channels.) I was feeling _so good_ after yesterday’s win, and we had a good laugh in the press conference...so many jokes, questions about Baz...but now the soreness is kicking in both mentally and physically, and _—_

_—_ well, I’m going to say something stupid. It’s what I do. Between me and my mouth, my career should’ve ended ten times over. It’s like someone’s out there watching over me. (Fred Perry, is that you?)

Penny wants me to memorise a few answers, but I know I’ll never keep my story straight. It’s made me popular with fans, I suppose, because I’m more _real_ than Baz. He’s only good at remembering what he’s supposed to say. His aunt feeds him lines like his morning coco pops. (No, wait. Baz eats boring cereal.) (His morning _dry shredded wheat._ )

Mind you, between me and Baz, who’s got the better public image? Who never finds themselves embroiled in yet another pointless Twitter war with a player they accidentally pissed off in the locker room?

I regret Past Simon immensely. Who does he think he is, making all these decisions? He’s no friend of mine.

“Rise and shine,” Shepard says. He’s one of life’s triers; I see that already. “We’ve got bagels and peanut butter! Got to start these press days right.”

I groan again, turning onto my stomach and screaming into the furniture.

“That’s the spirit!” Shepard says, giving me a comforting thump on the legs. “Whenever you’re ready, dig in. Agatha’s here _—_ she wants to wish you good luck for your interview.”

I growl, but I know he’s only being nice, and he’s also taking time away from his own tournament preparations to try and get me going. So for the sake of Shepard from Omaha (what _is_ his surname?) and his relentless commitment to positivity, I drag myself out of the cushions.

“Hello,” Agatha says, sitting cross-legged next to the plywood coffee table. I nearly jump a mile out of my own skin.

“Just going to sit there and scare me shitless, were you?”

She spreads jam calmly and precisely with a plastic knife. She looks immaculate. (Always does.)

“Yes.”

I glance at the clock on the windowsill _—_ it’s just after eight. I’m not due to begin my misguided adventure into live television until midday, so that’s good. Plenty of time to eat and overthink before the interviewers get here with their cameras. (They’re setting up here in my room. I should probably get dressed and make the bed, lest they lay their eyes upon a rogue pair of pants.) 

“Simon, are you up?” Penny calls from the dingy kitchenette. She always sounds more hopeful than she should. She appears, looking better rested than I do, and lowers a glass of orange juice into my hands.

“What’s this?” I ask, peering at it suspiciously.

“Fruit in liquid form,” she says tersely. She fluffs up the limp sofa cushions then sits down next to me, smoothing her pleated skirt over her knees. She’s got her hair tied up today _—_ it looks pretty. And is that _lipstick_ …? “You have the choice of drinking it or having it tipped over your head. Either way, some of the vitamins _will_ be absorbed by your corporeal presence.”

I frown, taking a distrustful sip. “It’s got bits in it. I hate juice with bits in.”

She glares at me from over the top of her glasses, like a vengeful librarian _—_ we’ve played this game throughout our lives and Penny _always_ wins. Defeated, I drink my fucking bitty orange “juice”.

“Agatha also brought fruit, and it comes _inside_ the bagels, so you should be able to eat it without having to look it in the eye. Raisins, Simon. Marginally healthier than what you stuffed yourself with last night.”

My stomach gurgles embarrassingly at the promise of further bread. _Ah, but it’s as if the pizza is already a distant memory._ Within a minute _—_ see, Sky Sports, I _can_ move my arse when I feel like it _—_ I’m on my knees by the coffee table, folding my legs under me, trying not to pay mind to the telly as Shepard turns it on.

_Baz._

I’m trying really, really hard not to think about him. How he’d looked yesterday, in a heap on the floor of a darkened corridor. Clutching his sides and climbing the walls to get away from me. He hates wearing white at Watford; he says it clashes with his complexion. (Olive. When he’s been running around for hours his cheeks turn this deep, reddish-gold.) (He likes to play in black because he thinks it compliments him, and it _does_. But also, I reckon he wants to look goth.)

It’s weird. I thought when I saw him I’d go ballistic. Demand answers, shake the truth from him.

But yesterday, I…

...I just wanted to know if he was alright.

At least it’s over. The reunion? Nah, I wouldn’t call it that. There’s nothing to reunite, just...it’s done. That’s all. I can think about other things.

(Can I?)

“Don’t worry, Simon _—_ Baz isn’t on court yet,” Agatha says slyly. There’s a strong possibility she can read my thoughts; she’s stupidly good at everything else. She passes me a bagel and a little plastic tub of peanut butter. (Going to need a lot more where that came from, sunshine.) “No need to be afraid of the big bad world number nine.”

I start to argue, then give up. My astoundingly witty comebacks never seem to have any effect on Agatha. I settle in and let their pleasant, hopeful conversation happen around me. Out of the corner of my eye I see Penny fidgeting _—_ she keeps glancing at Shepard and patting her hair.

“Did you two kip on the sofa?” I ask, tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth so it sounds more like _dig oo oo ip onna opa._

Agatha shakes her head. “We’re both staying at Radiant Gardens near Soho _—_ we left after you fell asleep, perhaps around two. It was easy enough to persuade one of the tournament drivers to bring us here again, on our way to the grounds. Apparently my manager wants _words_ with me.” She rolls her eyes, letting us know precisely how she feels. Agatha cycles through managers like I do un-Watfordlike underwear _—_ good luck trying to get her to change her ways.

That’s why it shocked me so much, to hear she was dropping out of the singles draw. Agatha’s the only consistent thing about tennis! She plays well, she wins, she smiles and waves for the cameras...it’s a show, sure, but she’s so _good_ at it. I always assumed she was enjoying it a lot more than me.

Agatha’s taking a one-slam break. She wants to have fun and try new things, hence the mixed doubles adventure _—_ then she’ll rejoin her usual schedule in time for the hardcourt swing in America. When I asked her what had pushed her to do this, while we were both floppy on the sofa, finishing off pizza crust, she said _nothing_. She thinks she’s paid her dues _—_ she’s the same age as me and Baz. We all went through the Lawn Tennis Club’s “talented junior training academy programme” together. Now she wants to do as she pleases.

_I’ve tried to do that,_ I feel like saying. _Trouble is, I don’t know what pleases me._

I hope she has the time of her life playing doubles with Shepard. The man, the myth, the legend is working on a bagel of his own; I catch him smiling at Penny, who tuts and pretends to be intensely interested in the carpet.

“Hope you don’t mind us crashing your room again,” he grins.

“Nah, not at all,” I mumble, still fighting the good peanut buttery fight. “You can pop in any time.”

And I think I mean it.

This feels good, pretending to be normal. Acting as if nothing weird’s happening _—_ I’m still an amateur on the challenger circuit, having a laugh with my mates. There’s no pressure. Baz even joins in sometimes and fucks about on the court with us, pretending our rackets are guitars.

(Nope. No Baz thoughts. Anti-Baz thoughts, that’s what we need.) (...Zab?)

Then Penny, checking a notification on her phone, announces that Dev and Niall are downstairs in the lobby, three hours early and asking to be let up.

I jam an entire bagel into my mouth and almost choke on it. Agatha has to do her own special, disinterested version of the Heimlich maneouvre to stop me from becoming a cold case, right then and there on the floor of a two-star hotel suite.

“Dev and Niall?” I ask, wheezing. “The doubles players? They’re _here?_ ”

“Soon to be _former_ doubles players,” Penny answers primly. “They’re retiring at the end of the season. It seems they’ve decided that their thirty percent career win ratio is legend and legacy enough.”

I roll my eyes, squeezing Agatha’s knee as I stand, bread settling like a lead weight in my stomach. “Fuck’s sake. That Dev prat is Baz’s cousin! He hates me by default. This is a set-up!”

Penny rolls her eyes. “No it isn’t. Don’t work yourself into a paranoid strop _—_ Dev and Niall have been worming their way onto the sports channels for months. They want to go into commentary.”

“They’re not supposed to be here yet!” I shout. “I’m not ready! I look like a couple of bin bags held together with false hope! I haven’t decided what to _wear._..this is going to be fucking terrible!” 

Agatha reaches up to pat my wrist in what’s meant to be a consoling (patronising?) gesture. 

“Too many exclamation marks, darling. Do simmer down.”

My shoulders slump.

“I’m doomed.”

“It’ll be fine,” Penny insists. “It’s hardly high-brow journalism with those two idiots. Just put on something tennis-related and try not to insult Baz _too_ harshly. We all remember how poorly he reacted on Twitter after the Stuttgart tournament _—_ screencaps of his tirade still do the rounds on Buzzfeed.”

I estimate there’s roughly enough time to ram another half-bagel down, so I lean over and quickly enact The Buttering while I do my special panicky dance.

“Tennis-related. Yeah. I can do that. I know tennis.” I feel the need to point out that not _everything_ revolves around Baz, although he likes to think it does. “I’m not going to be talking about Baz. I’m going to talk about me.”

_If I talk about Baz I might let slip that I saw him last night. They’ll ask me about it. How did he look, what did he say, were his legs a fiasco in those shorts, what do you think of his form going into his first match?_

Tennis therapy with Dev Grimble-Ditch? I don’t fucking think so.

Agatha smirks as she stands, asking Shepard if he’s ready to get going. _Doubles practice awaits?!?!?!?!?!_

“If you say so, Simon. Though somehow I suspect the conversation _might_ swing around to Baz at some point.”

With a swish of her hair _—_ as strong a weapon as any forehand, the way it gets people tripping over themselves _—_ she’s gone, heading to the tournament grounds.

“I could be a doubles player,” I mutter as the door closes behind them. Who do they think they are, being so bloody happy in my presence? (More importantly, what will their doubles name be _—_ Wellbeha? Omalove?) “I could quit and play doubles. Find a partner on Twitter like Agatha did, and have some fun.”

Penny pushes me lovingly down onto the sofa. She starts swatting at my hair with a damp flannel. (Good luck fighting _that_ losing battle.)

“You’re awful at doubles, Simon. Don’t you remember 2013 in Cardiff?”

“Yeah. So what?”

I _do_ remember. Baz and me, still in the starry-eyed stage of our careers, agreed to play a charity exhibition match to raise money for a donkey sanctuary. We teamed up to take on my interviewers, Grimble-Ditch and Norbury _—_ an actual, proper doubles team who like each other and get along and everything _—_ and we were absolutely slaughtered. I’ve played doubles for a laugh a couple of times since then, but as far I know, Baz has stuck to singles. (I wonder what put him off?)

“You almost took Baz’s eye out with your second serve. It’s a wonder he wasn’t blinded.”

“He’d bloody love that,” I mutter, fighting back against her marauding hands. “The extra attention he’d get. Special sponsorship eyeball.”

My hands shake in my lap. It’s so fucking stupid, but I _can’t._

I can’t stop thinking about him. About yesterday.

Baz didn’t even _say_ anything, just congratulated me and stood there with his ratty hair and big eyes, looking like I’d punched someone’s granny in the face. His aunt was giving enough dirty looks on his behalf, to be fair. Maybe he’d knackered himself out in the gym and hadn’t got enough venom left over to ruin my day.

I stop resisting Penny as she tidies me up. I don’t think anything _could_ have ruined yesterday for me. (Well, unless I’d lost the match.) I felt like I was flying all the way back to the hotel, and Agatha and Shepard’s pizza intrusion only improved things. Not even Baz and his big, sad, pretty owl eyes could have brought me down.

In the corridor...he looked lost. (Not literally. _I_ was lost. Fucking signs.) I know that look; that’s why I didn’t demand answers. _Why the fuck have you ignored me for three years, and also, did you know it’s rude to follow literally every other tennis player on Instagram except me? What if I need to DM you about something you wore that day? What’s so wrong with my pictures of cheese and blurry out-of-the-car-window cityscapes?_

Not that Baz has even been posting lately. His social media’s dead. He used to update constantly during tournaments _—_ I wonder what’s changed? Maybe he needs to pay someone to do it, like I do. (Or, more accurately, like Penny does.)

“Why did I never get that option?” I ask, wanting to take my mind off him. (Again.) “Doing what Agatha’s done. Picking and choosing.”

“You’ve always had options,” Penny answers patiently. She pulls a suitcase from under the bed and starts rifling through creased t-shirts. “Who do you want to wear, Greg or Tim? Oh, let’s go with Tim _—_ there’s a questionable stain on Greg’s eyebrow.” She straightens, blowing hair out of her eyes. “The trouble with you, Simon, is that you can’t abide the thought of not knowing what Baz is up to, twenty-four hours a day. You were never going to choose doubles, or football, or bloody part-time work in Greggs over this. Not unless he’d chosen it first.”

She throws the Tim Henman t-shirt at me. I get up to go and change in the bathroom, and change the subject on the way.

“Agatha and Shepard will make a good team,” I realise. “Pretty fucking scary _—_ her tactical mind, his enthusiasm. Who could beat it?”

She hums in agreement. She’s shuffling cards in her hands _—_ her preferred answers to today’s questions. I haven’t read any of them. As usual, this interview is going to be an exercise in winging it and hoping nothing can be taken too badly out of context. 

After it ends, she’s got me booked onto a practice court at Watford. One of the outside ones that most spectators don’t know about. My bag’s already packed with my best racket, two spares, strings, trainers, deodorant (shit gets bleak out there), a banana, those little energy sachet things that do fuck all but Baz swears by them so I eat them anyway...

...and underneath it all is a headband.

I don’t wear it. I don’t need to _—_ my curls are longer than they were at the start of my career, but not long enough to need accessorising.

I’ve had this headband in my bag for a while _—_ might even be five seasons, now. I thought it was lucky; players get superstitious about stuff like that. I had a few wins and thought, _maybe if I keep this headband around, I’ll keep winning._

Baz gave it to me. It used to be his. He said sometimes little changes to your gear, to your routine, can bring a massive change. He wears one when he plays _—_ his hair’s long for a bloke, black and silky, curling over his collar. It’s got his sponsor’s logo, and the colour changes with each tournament he plays _—_ brand new kit, brand new man to market and merchandise.

I haven’t thought about the headband in ages, but I saw it earlier when I was packing the bag. It’s not like I needed it yesterday. I played well, I played _great_ , I won.

Still, I left it alone. I’ll carry it onto the practice court. A bit of Baz, a bit of the past.

_Yesterday. Should I have said something?_

_Should I have asked what I did wrong?_

Outside the bathroom window, rain clouds gather. That’s normal. The main court at Watford’s got a roof over it, so some matches will be able to continue. Big name players like Baz will see their matches completed on time. (He’s scheduled on Centre at two o’ clock for his second round match.) 

I check my reflection and go to where Penny’s pacing, nervously glancing at the door.

“Now, I know they’re early and that’s very inconsiderate of them, but let’s focus. Dev and Niall might fancy themselves the next Ant and Dec,” she says, opening the notes app on her phone, “but they’re bound to ask at least _one_ serious question. Let’s go over a few things before they work out how to operate the lift.”

I swallow, nod, try not to think.

_Baz’s face in the corridor last night. He didn’t look right._

I wonder if he’ll win his match today. I wonder if I should follow the live build-up on my phone, just in case he needs the luck.

I roll my shoulders, work out some of the clicks and creaks. There are footsteps in the hall.

“They’re here,” Penny says, wringing her hands. She goes to answer the knocking door. From beyond it I hear the worrying echoes of _Wahey! Get in! You’re havin’ a laugh!_ that’ll mark the next few hours of my life.

_Good luck,_ I think, hoping somehow he feels it. That he might know I want this for him.

_If I can get through this interview, you can get through this match._

**🎾🏏⚽ Balls On Your Screen! TV: Live interview with Simon Snow ⚽🏏🎾  
**

**Interviewers:** Devonshire Grimble-Ditch, Niall Norbury (British #1 men’s doubles team)

[...]

_[Simon Snow sits on a bland hotel room sofa, legs crossed at the ankle, nervously ripping a cushion to shreds. One can only assume it will be added to his bill. He is wearing a Tim Henman t-shirt that has been well-loved and worn to death. Across from him, the interviewers sit with a clipboard. One of them, who looks like an off-brand Baz Pitch, is wearing a bow tie, and the other — Prince Harry without the self-respect — has forgotten to put his contact lenses in, and must squint to read the questions on the clipboard. At some point within the last ten minutes, the interview has veered wildly off script.]_

**Dev:** ...and by the end of the tournament, you were up to twelve, yeah? Twelve rackets smashed to smithereens. Parts of them still appear on eBay, like memorabilia dredged up from the Titanic.

**Simon:** Yeah, but I haven’t smashed any this week, have I? So. Maybe we could talk about _—_

**Dev:** _—_ Tim Herman! Right there on your shirt. Are you making a statement? Is this your stake in the great GOAT debate?

**Simon:** The what? _Herman?_ Show some respect! It's Henman. And I’ve never made _any_ statements about goats. Well, my new sponsor is _—_

**Niall:** Greatest Of All Time, mate! Everyone’s been giving their opinions. So who’s it for you, sunshine? Old Tiger Tim Henman here, as your attire suggests? Or are you more of the Pitch persuasion…?

**Simon:** What? No! I mean. Baz is great, but…

**Niall:** I was thinking more _Natasha_ Pitch, but you do you, Snow. Or you do _—_

**Simon:** Wait! The talk about goats threw me off. Ask me again. This shirt is what my manager picked out of the suitcase for me, and _—_

**Dev:** Hilarious. Absolute legend. You’re a living meme, mate.

**Niall:** Alright, moving on, let’s find a question we haven’t asked yet. The producers got our viewers at home to send them in on Twitter. Oh, here’s a good one _—_ _Si, when you stepped out on court yesterday, were you or were you not aware that your shorts were almost completely see-through?_ That’s from Caroline in Newcastle. Hi, Caroline!

**Simon:** I’m not _—_ I don’t _—_ I’m not answering that! Seriously, _what is_ your _problem_?

**Niall:** Sorry Simon, there were a lot of verbal italics in that response and I’m not quite sure what you’re saying. This _is_ what the _people_ want to _know_. _They’re_ asking the burning questions, not us.

**Simon:** Burning questions? Alright. Fine. You want an answer? You want to know what I think? I think I want to melt off the face of the planet. How has this interview only been going on for _twelve minutes?_ Is that clock lying to me? We’ve been here an hour, surely. A year, a lifetime. This interview is all I’ve ever fucking known. All I’ll ever experience until I die, right here on this sofa.

**Dev:** So...you don’t think the interview’s going well, then?

**Simon:** We haven’t talked seriously about tennis _once._ Ask me about yesterday’s match! Ask me about tomorrow’s! Ask me about Serena Williams’s amazing twenty-three Grand Slam titles!

**Niall:** I mean, we’re new to this whole live telly game. Any tips you have would really help us out.

**Simon:** Tips? _Tips?_ Here’s a bloody tip: _ask me a question, you bellend!_

**Dev:** Alright there, son. Tell us how you feel.

**Simon:** “Can we talk about tennis?” I ask, pointlessly.

**Dev:** Hang about. Did you just articulate your own dialogue tag?

**Niall:** Seriously, Simon _—_ how can we make this interview more comfortable for you? There’s a very angry producer shouting in my ear right now, and we’d like to make amends before we suffer a pay cut.

**Simon:** Just don’t give up the day job, lads. That’s all I’m going to say.

**Dev:** We have to give it up; we’re knackered. This season’s our last, then it’s TV full-time.

**Simon:** For the love of Novak Djokovic…

**Niall:** No need to bring the GOATs into this!

**Simon:** _You’re_ the ones who started banging on about goats in the first place!

**Dev:** Here you go, look, here’s a tennis question. Sent in by Debbie from Scunthorpe, love you Debs! _It’s common knowledge that Baz Pitch likes to close the locker room door and recite the lyrics to_ Another One Bites the Dust _aloud, in order to motivate himself before a match. What do_ you _do to get yourself ready?_

**Simon:** I don’t...for fuck’s sake. I really don’t think that’s true.

**Dev:** It’s _definitely_ true. We read it on the internet. He performs it beautifully, like spoken word poetry.

**Simon:** No, look, I know Baz. Aren’t you _related_ to him? It’s not _—_

**Niall:** Let’s be honest, Devo. Snow here is a solid _S Club Party_ kind of man.

**Dev:** For real. Me too _—_ who _wouldn’t_ feel inspired by the pop classics? There you go, Snow _—_ before your match against Winters tomorrow, pull up the lyrics to _Bring It All Back_ on your phone, and practice your public speaking skills in front of the mirror.

[...]

**SIMON**

The interview is fucking excruciating. I’ve not had one this bad since Green Fuzzy Balls called me as a prank during their radio show, and Gareth pretended to be Baz live on air. (He only had me convinced for five seconds, but five seconds is all it takes to mortally embarrass yourself in the digital age.)

I sit back and watch them fall apart. Dev launches into a story about the time he came across Baz _—_ his cousin and favourite thing to slander _—_ performing his pre-match rituals in Melbourne, and did his best to derail him. They’re laughing and looking at me like I should be laughing, too.

Dev starts to choke, and Niall does this weird little snort that sets them off even worse. Then they’re both crying, and I’m sitting here with the cameras on me, wishing I could eat this bloody cushion and be done with it.

Eventually, between gasps, one of them _—_ I’ve got no flipping clue which _—_ manages to say, “Second round tomorra, Snowboy! How’d you feel?”

And I say, “Yeah, I know, an Australian player. Cole Winters. Can’t wait.” _To be away from you two._

I think everyone present has given up. I hold the cushion I’ve been dismantling in front of my face and wait for it to be over.

Five minutes later, they’ve both forgotten I’m even sitting here _—_ it’s possible they’ve forgotten they’re on telly altogether. (Dev’s singing S Club 7 songs, and Niall’s taking selfies on his phone.) I slide off the sofa, getting tangled up in the microphone as I rip it off, and shrug at Penny.

“Waste of time,” I mouth as I escape the glare of the cameras. A couple of Balls On Your Screen! employees are pointing at me, plotting how best to get me back in shot. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I’d rather be training than putting up with this.”

For once, Penny doesn’t argue or beg me to think of my reputation _—_ even she sees what a hopeless cause it is, sitting here with this pair of berks. (She must know I’m serious _—_ I’ll usually try anything to get out of wall sits.)

She loudly announces that the interview is over, and asks Dev and Niall’s crew to clear the room. Then she takes my arm and steers me along the corridor outside, bag already hoisted on her shoulder, as if she too has been contemplating a getaway.

I wouldn’t normally feel enthusiastic about practice, but there are big screens set up around Watford, and I should be able to watch Baz’s match from the outside courts. He should be starting in a few hours. Not that I _care_ , but...he watched _my_ match, right? Or at least followed the commentary. It’s only polite if I keep an eye out in return. 

“Thanks, Pen. Will they trash our room?” There’s nothing personal in there. Just my clean underpants stash and an empty pizza box.

“If they want to live, no.” She wipes her glasses on a sleeve. “I think we’ve had enough of the press for one day, don’t you? It’s clear they don’t take you seriously. Let’s both ban ourselves from watching this interview.”

“Agreed.”

I frown as I follow her through a set of double doors. I hadn’t thought about it like that, that they were making fun of me. I just assumed they threw Dev and Niall in there because no one else was available...but that doesn’t say much for me either, does it? They wouldn’t dare make a joke out of Lamb’s interview. Or Baz’s. Baz would get the full red carpet treatment. They would’ve rolled out Greg Rusedski with a diamante microphone, especially for the occasion.

I’m thinking about which parts of the interview are most likely to become a terrible Tumblr joke as we exit the lift, pulling my hat down over my face. There aren’t many people in the foyer _—_ staff mostly, giggling behind the desk. I try to convince myself they’re not laughing at me.

I clutch Penny’s sleeve and follow her outside, hoping that a tournament vehicle is already there and waiting for us. Because I’ve successfully blinkered myself, I ricochet off a PLEASE WAIT HERE sign and bash against a car. It’s a Watford vehicle _—_ there’s Baz’s smirking face, judging me from the back door.

_Fuck. Can’t escape him._

_They could’ve done a better job at rendering his hair._

It doesn’t register that Penny’s walked straight past me and gone to a completely different car _—_ all I see is Baz, and so I fuck the day up further by walking towards his giant face and opening the back door. (The handle’s over his eyebrow. I pull it up, and it’s just like the real thing.)

I tumble inside, only now realising that Penny isn’t tumbling along behind me.

Which means this probably _isn’t_ my _—_

_“You_ again?”

_—_ car.

_No._

_Shit!_

(As Shepard would say: _?!?!?!?!?!?!_ )

_He’s following me. Or am I following him?_

In the back of what is clearly The Wrong Car, I come face to face with Baz Pitch. The _real_ one, looking moody and surprised and pissed off, all at once. His mouth drops open and his nostrils flare. I know the look; he’s either going to fight or run away for another three years.

Except there’s nowhere to go, is there? Behind him is traffic. Before him is me.

There’s no time to bang the window and hop out, or call Penny for help. (My phone’s in the kit bag.)

I want to say to him, _This isn’t what it looks like._

But what does it look like?

“The bloody fuck,” I snarl instead. _“You_ again, you mean!”

I’ve always been good at the social stuff. Ask anyone.

“Snow,” Baz spits, flopping back into his seat. The driver asks if there’s a problem, but he says no _—_ he reaches past me to pull the door handle. It swings open onto tarmac and the rising scent of my mediocrity. He lifts his socked foot off the floor _—_ wait, why isn’t he wearing shoes? _—_ and tries to kick me off the backseat onto the pavement. “To what do I owe the immense displeasure?”


	6. Stuck in a car with you(r face on it)

**BAZ**

Because my life is a spiralling mass of poor decisions followed by insufferable consequences, I find myself trapped in the back of a Fiat Punto with Simon Snow, the driver pulling away from the kerb despite the fact the back door is still hanging open. Snow scrabbles to close it, and almost falls to his death. (He holds onto my Eeyore socks for dear life.)

 _“Ready to go, are we? Off to Watford!”_ the driver calls from the front seat. I can’t see his name tag from here; if it’s another bloody Racquet, I’m going to scream.

“No, stop the car!” I shout, though the unprofessional swine has turned the radio up too loud to hear me. A blur of stilted pop drowns out all protest as we merge with slow-moving delivery vans and mud-flecked taxis.

_Tension. Isn't this what I wanted?_

“Stop kicking me!” Snow growls, flapping at his unfastened seat belt. “Fuck’s sake, you’re such an epic _knob_.”

I drop my feet and squeeze against the other door, wishing I could pass through it like a spectre of regret. My shoes are in the _other_ car, with my father — he made the wise decision this morning _not_ to travel with my aunt to Watford. He has no doubt arrived by now, and is blocking a doorway somewhere, wondering where I am. I imagine him, utterly out of his depth without an accountant to gripe at.

_This isn’t happening._

I look to my right and confirm that it is, indeed, happening.

_This is very real._

_WOULD YOU LIKE TO INCREASE THE CHANCES OF YOU SAYING AND/OR DOING SOMETHING VERY FOOLISH WITHIN THE NEXT FIVE MINUTES?_

First, Snow knocks me over and pretends I didn’t cut him out of my life. Next, he hijacks my commute.

“Why are you here?” I ask, though it’s evident from the way he’s picking a fight with the driver that dropping in was no voluntary act. “I need to return to that sorry excuse for a hotel. My aunt’s inside, mauling a television crew.”

Snow gives up on the driver and starts fighting with the door again, though the child locks are on and he’s powerless to overcome them. Defeated, he slumps back and says, “Penny’s taking me to Watford. I’m doing some training.”

“ _Physical_ training? On your day off?” I snipe. “How worryingly committed.”

“Yeah,” he growls. “I’m a changed man.”

 _Changed._ I wonder about that.

I very politely (read: desperately) ask the driver to pull over immediately, though if he can hear me over Snow’s wailing, he’s unable to act _—_ The Little Punto That Couldn’t has already been sucked into the U-bend of London traffic surrounding the hotel, and it’ll be several minutes before we reach a side street down which we can turn.

“...and what’s your fucking problem with the Three-Legged Donkey?” Snow gripes, flinging an arm and almost punching the window clear out of its frame. “That’s _my_ hotel and it was described on TripAdvisor as _surprisingly adequate_ , alright?”

His cheeks are red and his chest is heaving, hands grasping elbows like a petulant child who’s been told no for the first time in his life. I try to resist the anguished pull of him, I really do _—_ but my eyes drift to his side of the car, taking in his ratty Tim Henman t-shirt and stained tracksuit trousers. Trainers with so many holes in them, they’re more suited for a career in cheese grating than anything perambulatory.

He’s everything I fear, everything I want.

_I need to get out of this car._

“ _You_ are the so-called star player staying at that hovel?” I gasp, tearing my eyes off the tears in his trousers. “The one worth disrupting my day for? My, how standards are falling.”

The Three-Legged Donkey sounds more like an obscure countryside pub than a city centre hotel, but there you have it. Once you venture out of the main tourist areas, London does as it pleases, for better or worse. In past years, Snow’s chosen dwellings have been of the predictably middling variety _—_ Premier Inn, or something else easy to digest. Something he saw advertised on television, and trusted to be amenable. But _this_ oddity, miles away from the Open’s grounds? How did he even _hear_ of this place, outside of Back-Alley Traveller’s Digest?

“It was all I could get,” he sulks, anticipating my judgment. He blinks and remembers he’s angry, pretending to be murderously interested in the parade of bicycles that pass on our right. “And there’s nothing wrong with it, so stop being a snob. There’s a bed in there, and a mini fridge. If I need a clean towel I ask for one, and it arrives after the washer’s finished its cycle.”

He’s genuinely impressed by this.

“Why were _you_ waiting outside?” he goes on, staring at my socks. (Poor Eeyore — he deserves none of this.) “Isn’t this neck of the woods a bit shabby for your tastes?”

Ah, _there_ it is. The anger and accusation. This is what I had expected from him yesterday _—_ though perhaps our audience of two was too much for Snow. He needn’t worry what the driver might make of our argument _—_ he’s now humming along to a grating dance track, blissfully unaware of the flammable cargo strapped into his backseat.

“My cousin’s in there,” I say, as if it explains anything. “He was supposed to be hitting with me this morning.” _Before my match,_ I don’t add, because accepting the truth of my impending trial is proving rather difficult. “The day’s schedule has changed against my will, and he wasn’t answering Fiona’s calls _—_ thus, we came to collect him. Drag him out screaming, if necessary _—_ family comes before all else.”

Snow huffs and puffs. I steel my walls against the blow that doesn't come.

Instead he looks at me, and my breath is swiftly whipped away.

(Weak, Basil. Weak, pathetic, and so very _—_ )

“Your cousin’s a fucking idiot, did you know that?”

I breathe. In, out. In, out. _Steady as she goes._

“Yes, I’ve been aware for some time. Devonshire has been a disaster since he learnt how to walk. An evil deed was committed, the day a racket was placed in his hand.”

“He comes to my hotel room, right _—_ three hours early! _—_ with his cocky mate to do an interview, and they sit there for twenty minutes taking the piss out of me! I told Penny I’d rather be practising than putting up with that sort of treatment. So we came downstairs and I got in the wrong bloody car.”

Snow says it all very matter-of-factly, though I suspect he’s on the brink of one of his splendid tantrums. With no rackets to smash, where would his fists take him _—_ the head rest? The gear stick, my neck?

I’m mildly offended that Snow is the player Dev was so excited to interview this morning. One win makes the world number 108 player _du jour_ , does it? Two hours of inoffensive on-court behaviour and he’s welcomed back as a hero.

“Where’s your minder?” I ask bitterly. I turn to look out of the back window _—_ the tournament car waiting behind mine at the hotel isn’t following. Our driver finally finds a corner to turn down, and we escape the plague of the main road. (Though we’re now stuck behind an Ocado delivery van, which is less than ideal.) “I’m surprised she lets you out unsupervised.”

“Penny got in the other car. The right car.” He slides down until his knees are scrunched up under the driver’s seat. “Can’t even call her; she’s got my phone.”

“I’d offer you my own, but it’s lost to the bottomless pit of my aunt’s coat pocket.”

He looks over. “Is that why you haven’t been online? Your aunt took your phone?”

I glare, though he’s never been the sort to be waylaid by a look. “She didn’t _take_ it. I don’t need the distraction.”

He grumbles to himself. Something about _insufficient updates_ and _feeling out of the loop_. The pathetic need to console him rises, though Graff knows where it comes from. Was the point in pushing him away not to avoid precisely this, the inescapable urge to look after this wreck of a man? To ensure he is in all ways _okay_ , even if it means I’m not.

“Fiona went inside your curious residence to retrieve my cousin,” I offer as an olive branch. “My match has been moved up; Balls On Your Screen! were instructed to conduct their interview ahead of schedule, so that he’d still make it to Watford in time for practice.”

Snow snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, cos it’s all about _you_ , isn’t it? Let’s move the earth for _you_. Nobody told _me_ the schedule had changed! Those two pillocks turned up in the lobby like a couple of weird, tennis-hating Avon ladies.”

I raise an immaculate eyebrow, but he isn’t looking. The driver presses a button somewhere on the car dashboard, and his fuzzy voice cuts through a gap in the plexiglass partition: _“Sorry about the mix up, lads. I heard you shouting bloody murder back there. Want me to swing around the front of the Donkey?”_

“Yes please,” I say quickly, before Snow can get a mutinous word in. _The less time spent suffocating in his presence, the better._ “I’ve no doubt my aunt will efficiently enact her annoying relative retrieval mission. Then we can go our separate ways, in separate cars.”

“B-but I’m going to Watford too!” he splutters. “Penny would catch on eventually and follow us _—_ we could just _—_ ”

“ _No,_ Snow. It is absolutely imperative that we arrive there in separate vehicles.”

_Please. For the sake of my sanity, remove this man from my immediate orbit._

I remember the last time I was caught climbing out of a car with a player during a tournament. It was in Monte-Carlo _—_ I was staying at the same hotel as one of the lower-ranked British players, Philippa Stainton. (She suffered an unfortunate throat injury that week, that she’s still yet to recover from. It never pays to scream at umpires.) The dating rumours ran rampant for months. I dread to think what conclusions they’d draw, if I climbed out of a car with Snow on my heels.

He lapses into silence, which is a rare enough treat, and I allow my eyes to close. Our car labours behind the taunting delivery van, and by the time we’ve finally passed it, the next set of traffic lights are red and we’re going nowhere once again.

But that’s nothing new for us, is it?

**SIMON**

I’m stuck in a car with Baz Pitch, watching the back of the driver’s head bop up and down as a classic Wham! track gets cranked up to eleven. (If he weren’t here next to me, I’d be singing along.)

I risk a glance and take a quick inventory of his face _—_ droopy eyes, crooked nose, pouty lips _—_ and decide he’s about the same level of jolly he normally is. (Aka -50,000.) He’s wearing his tennis whites, which fits with his excuse for lurking outside my hotel _—_ waiting for Dev Grimble-Ditch, so they can have a knock about before his match.

Baz’s leg moves up and down. He looks nervous.

I didn’t put much thought into how anxious he’d be. He’s Baz Pitch _—_ he never drops out of tournaments this early. He’s solid for the first few rounds.

But maybe half of what he shows the world is an act…

...and the other half’s here in the car, with me.

“Sorry for bothering you. It wasn’t exactly planned, yeah? I was distracted.”

“No surprises there.”

We sit in stormy silence for a bit, and much like the car, we aren’t getting far _—_ Baz’s mad aunt must be hopping mad on a pavement somewhere, thinking I’ve kidnapped him. She’ll either call the police or get into a slanging match with Penny _—_ neither sounds like much fun.

I expect him to curse me, or scream at me to get out of his life (again), but he doesn’t.

He sits and looks at me.

This might be it. The impossible task, the one they say all tennis players face at some point in their lives. (Except it’s usually on a tennis court.) ( _Rafael Nadal on clay in a five-set match to the death.)_

Being civil with your arch-nemesis who hates you for no reason; that’s _my_ impossible task.

“Didn’t mean to fuck up your day,” I mutter. “My head was spinning after that shitty interview, and I had a lot on my mind.”

“What could you possibly be so distracted by?” he asks with a weary sigh. “Don’t tell me. You caught sight of a stray food truck?”

 _Not quite,_ I think. _It was you. Haven’t you noticed your massive fucking face taking up the side of every hatchback in London?_

“By everything,” I say instead. “There’s a lot going on.”

He’s got nothing to say to that. That usually means he agrees, but doesn’t want to admit it. (Or that’s what it _used_ to mean. How much has Baz changed? How much have _I_ changed?)

I try my best not to fidget as we wait to get going, because I know it’ll only piss him off, but it’s hard. _Really_ hard. It doesn’t help that I’m nervous _—_ maybe even more nervous than I was yesterday, before the match and after, when I nearly snapped his bloody nose off in the corridor.

I didn’t expect to get this far, did I? By now I thought I’d already be checking out of the hotel and looking for a part-time job to cover the bills. (Never forget the Summer of Argos, 2014.) I definitely didn’t expect to be _here_ , on day three of the tournament, staring round two in the face.

“Stop moving,” Baz snaps, rubbing his eyes. “And stop _mumbling_ to yourself. It’s like being trapped with a demented Furby.”

“Sorry.” I hadn’t realised I’d been talking. Fuck. “I’m trying to...to get comfortable.”

“In _this_ matchbox of a car? Not likely.”

“Alright Top Gear, calm down.”

He shoots me a dark look, picking at a bit of fluff caught in the zip of his pristine white jacket. It’s a custom job, as usual _—_ his initials are there, stitched above the sponsor’s logo. TBGPIII, like a nightmare round of Scrabble.

“You’re not due on court for hours,” I say, still really fucking uncomfortable. (Maybe the car’s not the problem.) “What are you being arsey for?”

We take another right turn. One more, and we should be back on the main road leading past the hotel, and that glorious pizza shop. For a second I think, _we’re running out of time._ But why would that mean anything? It’ll be fine when we get out of this car _—_ when he goes back to his perfect life, and I go back to my two-star Fiat Punto soap opera.

(Also, now that I’ve _had_ the thought about Fiona vs Penny, I can’t get it out of my head. No part of it could end well.)

“Two hours and forty minutes,” he says, sighing back into his seat. “Though who’s counting?” He looks tired, and he’s holding his leg funny _—_ it’s stretched out, invading my side of the car. He still hasn’t told me where his shoes are. It doesn’t seem fair; if it were me rolling around London without suitable footwear, he’d be all over it.

His socks have got sad donkeys on them. They’re cute.

“Soz, just _—_ well, why aren’t you already there? It’s not my fault you’re cutting it fine.”

“I’ve already _told_ you why I’m not there. My match has been moved, and I need my sorry excuse for a cousin to drop everything and accompany me to the practice courts.” He rolls up a sleeve to check his (very fucking expensive) watch. “There’s no chance of making it on time. Just watch Wellbelove or Lamb cruise in and steal my slot.”

 _It definitely won’t be Agatha,_ I almost say. (But that’s not my news to share.) The second of those two names provokes a sting of anger in me, but there’s no time to deal with it _—_ the car swerves suddenly, horn blaring and interrupting our almost-conversation as we screech to a halt. (Amazing, really. I could’ve sworn we were only going three miles an hour.)

“That’s what this is,” Baz says, voice flat and hands in his lap. “The end of my life, both professionally and personally.”

“Can’t exactly end at separate times, can it?”

He’s such a dramatic berk, honestly.

He tips his head towards me, and for a second I’m lost in the grey. Then he says, “Snow. Why are we still doing this?”

And I don’t know what to say to that, so for once in my life, I keep my mouth shut.

_Doing what? This as in, you and me trying to talk like normal people?_

_Or this as in tennis?_

I’ve always thought he just had _it_. Whatever it is, you know...something that makes you stop and look. Something that makes you say _this person’s going to succeed, no matter what._

Even though he’s taller than me, Baz looks small right now. Young, afraid. We’re back at the Lawn Club, trying to beat the ball machine. We’re being watched by our coaches, desperate to impress.

I used to think he wasn’t afraid of anything.

(Is he afraid of me?)

“How are you feeling?” I whisper.

His lower lip shakes; he catches himself. Big, showy and dramatic, like his tennis.

“Absolutely perfect.”

He’s lying. Of all the things he’s good at, getting away with a bold-faced fib ain’t one of them. _I can read you like a picture book._

“Be honest, Baz. It’s just us in here; no cameras, no tricks.”

He glances at the driver, but he’s lost to the world _—_ since our almost-collision with a road sweeper, the dancing and singing has recommenced. I don’t think he’s got any bloody clue who’s in the back of the car. This is Green Fuzzy Balls’s wet dream and Fiona Pitch’s worst nightmare, rolled into one.

“I’m nervous,” he says quickly. He shifts his stupidly long legs, the dodgy knee pushed under the seat in front. Maybe he took his shoes off because they were hurting? “Nothing to be concerned about.”

I frown. He missed a few tournaments last year. Is that what this is, worry about playing through an injury?

(I don’t think so.)

He rolls his shoulders and unfolds against the back seat, picture-perfect once again. The sliver of fragility he showed me shatters.

Baz lacks that killer edge sometimes. I don’t know if he knows that. If he could let go of himself, get out of his head and not worry what the other player is thinking, he might have multiple slams under his belt by now. He might have reached world number one and stayed there for a bit. He would’ve beaten Lamb in New York, stayed ahead of his own mind. He might have pushed himself into the legends club, like his mum.

But I know a secret about Baz that he doesn’t want the rest of the world to know. Maybe that’s why he fucked me off _—_ he knew I’d figured him out.

On the inside, underneath the barbed comments and twitchy eyebrows and dark looks, Baz Pitch is soft. There was a day a few years back _—_ fuck, maybe even _several_ , were we nineteen? _—_ where I got stuck playing an epic three-setter in the rain, down at Eastbourne. I couldn’t even tell you who my opponent was _—_ Norrie, maybe _—_ but they were good, and so I was I, and we were out there for hours.

I lost. It’s part of the sport, and back then I was able to handle it better. It didn’t feel like every loss was the beginning of the end. After the match I went back to my room in the local Travelodge, feet soaked and dragging. Penny punctuated each soggy footstep with dismay; she was sure we’d be billed for the carpet. She went into her room to dry off, and I sloshed into mine.

The door knocked an hour later. I thought someone had got the wrong room. When I opened it Baz was standing there wrapped in a duffle coat, with a Boots carrier bag in one hand and a flask of tea in the other.

 _“You could have perished out there, Snow,”_ he said, pushing past me. I checked the hall but no one was watching _—_ he was just getting more famous than me, back then. I was having a hard time accepting he was the talented one. (He wouldn’t start rubbing it in my face for another season or so.)

 _“What are you doing?”_ I said. “ _You’ve got a match!”_

 _“The remaining matches are cancelled,”_ he’d replied, shrugging off his coat and flopping onto my bed. He was wearing a green jumper with a cow on it. I meant to ask who he’d nicked it off, but never did. _“If you haven’t already noticed, the weather’s taken a dreadful turn.”_

I watched as he emptied the contents of the Boots bag onto the bed. Vitamins, Lemsip, throat lozenges, paracetamol.

 _“What’s this?”_ I asked. _“Who’s dying?”_

He looked surprised. _“I’m here to ensure_ you _don’t die of the man flu, Snow. It’s hardly likely you’ll take care of yourself.”_

I sat next to him on the bed. We played Red Dead on my PlayStation and he put a warm flannel on my forehead. He _cared._

I wonder if he’s forgotten about that rain delay in Eastbourne.

I haven’t.

 _“Look lively,”_ he said, when he unscrewed the lid on the flask. His team didn’t know where he was; he wasn’t as scared, back then. We’d break the rules all the time. _“Drink up.”_

I did, and I do. I drink it in again now as I look at him. Older, gaunt, tired.

Baz Pitch is a good person and he fucking hates that I know it.

He sneers at me, hiding his kindness behind bared teeth. “What are you looking at, you abhorrent nightmare?”

I don’t think before I say it. I don’t need to.

“Good luck today,” I tell him. “Look lively.”

He sniffs, but I see the line of red as his cheeks catch fire.

Baz, who fucking hates me.

Baz, the reason I carried on. The reason I pushed to be a better player, just so I could pretend to keep up with him.

“Thank you,” he says awkwardly.

Again, like yesterday in the corridor, it doesn’t sound like he’s taking the piss.

It sounds like he means it.

“Is it good, practising with Dev?”

I don’t know why I ask. Part of me wants to keep the conversation going. Part of me wants to know; we used to practise together, towards the beginning of our careers. That stopped once the money started rolling in and we could afford our own teams, and pay people to train with us.

His lip curls. “What do _you_ think?”

I’m feeling impulsive. Dangerous, even. Penny would kill me for offering, but the part of me that’s not watching him very carefully, hanging on to each reaction, is dying to know. _Does he even remember how good it used to be? Is that part of him still in there?_

“If you ever need a hitting partner, you can just ask. Me, I mean. I wouldn’t mind. I haven’t really got anyone to train with this year. Agatha’s not playing singles _—_ ” (Oh fuck, the doubles cat's out the bag) “ _—_ so she won’t be on the grounds as much, and after last time, Jack Sock said _never again._ So I could join you for a bit, if you want? On the outside courts. They’re not the best, but no one else goes there.”

_No one would see._

His eyes are turning dark, and I don’t know if it’s from rage or what, but he doesn’t go ballistic or call it _the worst idea to ever be formulated_ , or anything like that.

He just looks at me.

So I look back.

In interviews, like today, they always ask who you think the greatest is _—_ the best player, your inspiration, the one you draw strength from. You’re supposed to say one of the legends, one of history’s big names: Lendl, Navratilova, Sampras, Graff, Laver. The ones who made tennis what it is.

But Baz is the one I admired most. Still do.

His leg’s shaking again. He fusses with his hands and tries to hide it, but too late _—_ he knows I’ve noticed. He’s got white trackies on over his match shorts, so I can’t see if his knee’s bandaged. (But you don’t sit twisted up like that for comfort.)

“Snow,” he murmurs, almost quiet enough for me to miss it. “Do you really mean that?”

“Mean what, about Agatha? Yeah. She’s only playing mixed doubles this year. Fucking shocker, right?”

His face shutters. He turns to the window as if he hadn’t asked anything at all.

“No. Not that.”

Before I can open my trap again and make things worse, the driver’s voice bursts into life from the front seat. He’s found a walkie-talkie _—_ a hand scrabbles about on the passenger seat, then he pushes it through a hole in the divider.

_“For you, lads. One of you, at least.”_

I take it, looking down at an array of buttons.

“For us?”

_“Must be. Says there’s been a report made of a doubles team stuck in traffic.”_

I look at Baz; he’s staring at my hand, but makes no move to seize control of either the situation or the walkie-talkie. Instead, he stirs himself into a rage.

“I am _not_ a doubles player!”

I grit my teeth and press a button on the side. “Hello? Is anyone out there?”

_“Simon Snow, is that you?”_

I feel a strange blend of horror, panic and relief _—_ a pretty typical range of emotions for Penny to inspire.

“Pen! Yeah, it’s me. How’d you get a Watford walkie-talkie? Did you mug an umpire?”

There’s a disgruntled bit of static. Baz sighs heavily next to me.

 _“I’m standing next to our car, Simon._ Our _car. Which vehicle are you erroneously occupying, or do I really not want to know the answer to that question? I saw you drive away! You’d best not be practising without me.”_

“No, we’re not _—_ look, we’re coming back to the hotel, alright? I’m in Baz’s car. There was a minor misunderstanding, but it’s all good.”

I daren’t glance over to confirm whether it actually _is_ all good, or whether Baz plans to shove his sweaty socks on me again at the earliest opportunity.

_“Well it’s good to know you’re not dead — I’ll call off the hounds. Which road are you on? Tell the driver to — hang on. Did you just say you were in Baz Pitch’s car?”_

“Yeah,” I say, leaning into it as the driver takes one last turn to get us back onto the main road. I can see the hotel up ahead on the right _—_ there’s a tatty Union flag hanging limply off a flagpole, and there’s Penny, walking in circles by the front doors. “I can see you. Don’t panic.”

_“Why on earth did you get into Baz’s car?!?!?!?!”_

I think she’s been spending too much time with Shepard. All that question mark-on-exclamation mark violence.

“I wasn’t looking where I was going. He can hear you, so be nice.”

A crackle of white noise, then a reluctant huff of breath.

_“Good morning, Basil.”_

He glares at me unhappily, eyeing the device as if it might blow up in his face.

“Bunce.”

I wait, but he doesn’t say anything else.

“Think that’s about all you’re getting, Pen.” The driver signals and we begin drifting to the side of the road, looking for a parking space, moving as slowly as one car can go without being completely stationary. “Have you seen Fiona Pitch about? Apparently she went into the hotel to murder _—_ ”

But there’s no time or need to finish the thought. The car’s stopping and I’m pulling at the door handle before Baz can do it for me, ripping myself out of the confined space. I chuck the walkie-talkie onto the backseat and launch myself through the door. Maybe I should say something _—_ wish him luck again, thank him for not ripping my face off.

But I let the nerves get the best of me. I jump out of the car and slam the door in his face, without looking back.

“There you are,” Penny mutters, grabbing my sleeve. She’d put reins on me if she could. She’s forever scared of losing me in a supermarket. (To be fair, it’s not without reason. It happened once in Tesco. She had to ask the customer service bloke to put out a distress call from the help desk.) “What are you _doing_? The last thing we need is more bad press, after that disastrous interview. If you turn up at Watford looking like Baz Pitch’s ball boy, we’ll never live it down.”

My mouth drops open. “I would _never_ carry Baz’s balls for him.”

She drags me towards the other car _—_ the empty car, the _safe_ car _—_ and only when we’re right alongside it does she let go of my arm.

“That’s what it would look like, Simon. You, following him around like the old days. No, the less you’re around Baz, the better. That’s twice in two days you’ve stumbled into each other _—_ we don’t need a third, much more public event.”

She’s right. She usually is about this stuff _—_ the image, the business side of things.

“Let’s get going. I sent Simon a message _—_ Physio Simon, not you _—_ and he’s going to get a massage table set up. He wants to work on your glutes before tomorrow.”

I grumble my way to the back door of another Punto, this one drowning in the unpleasant face of Charles Lamb. _No thanks. I think I’d rather ride in Baz, if it’s all the same._

I check over my shoulder nervously, in case of an impending ambush by Fiona Pitch. She wakes up furious with me just for existing _—_ what would she do if she found out I was off on my scenic jollies with her precious nephew? She must still be trying to talk some sense into Dev and Niall. That should keep her busy for the rest of the century.

Before I climb into the (right, correct, actual) car, I look over at the other one. The windows are tinted, so I can’t see inside. I pretend he can see me; I lift my hand in a wave. Then I realise how fucking stupid I look waving at nothing, and let it drop.

**BAZ**

I watch him go. I always do, I ever will.

He can’t see me through the glass; he waves anyway. Stupid numpty.

I wave back.

I slump against the door and wait for my aunt to emerge with my hazard of a cousin, picking at my fingers and kick, kick, kicking the back of the passenger seat, as the minutes left before my match fritter away.

I should be out on the grass; I should be running. My father will be shouting his worries at a man in an American office building, to compensate. This minor diversion was only supposed to take minutes _—_ retrieve Devonshire and report post-haste to the players’ entrance for the all-important pre-match rituals.

Instead, for the second time in as many hours, I crashed into the cataclysm that is Simon Snow. And did he confront me _this_ time? No.

The absolute terror selflessly offered to practise with me.

My mind floods with the delicious torture of him in his despicably see-through shorts, dishevelled and misfiring as he struggles to keep up with the punishing pace I’d be unable to resist setting.

_No part of this is good for me._

_(But did he mean it?)_

He’d make for a better partner than my cousin. For a man who has played doubles for more than half his life, Dev Grimble-Ditch couldn’t find a decent ball in a Wacky Warehouse ball pit.

_(Or were they only words, without meaning?)_

Something vibrates on the seat. The walkie-talkie; Snow left it between us. I hear a crackle and a new voice, calling for an extra tournament car to travel to the Three-Legged Donkey. _“The telly crew needs a lift back to the grounds. One car won’t be enough. Also, one of the cameras is in pieces, owing to a confrontation.”_

Another delay. I close my eyes, but even with them shut, I see him.

 _Only words,_ I remind myself. _He didn’t mean it. There’s too much distance between us; I made sure of it._

When I open my eyes, I see the other tournament car drifting away into traffic.

_A road, three years, a lifetime of distance._

Still, perhaps I’ll arrange tomorrow’s practice session on one of the outside courts, just in case he’s there.

Just in case he meant it.


End file.
